


like real people do (there is no right way)

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-AC3, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), not so canon-typical societal unrest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-30 23:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Desmond is Snapped back into existence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Nimadge  
Slightly AU both on AC and on MCU side.

I ah… I don't know how to start this. But I figure I should, should make a record, keep track of – of what's happened and what I know. Nothing makes sense, so, I should try to, to… I don't know. I should probably be writing this down, it'd be a lot more orderly and stuff, but I've never been much of a writer. Blank page syndrome, all the way. Speaking's easier, I'm… good at that, at least. Or not. Well, I can do it, anyway. That's more than I can do with writing.

Shit, this is… already turning into a mess. Cut – cut this part out, I guess, if this ever ends up as a… whatever. I'm going to start over, I have a bunch of notes here, shit I should cover – shouldn't be swearing, probably, but it's kind of warranted here. Anyway, notes, I'll uh, I'll go through those. And start over. Uh, But here, whoever, whenever, this ends up as...

Okay. My name is Desmond Miles and as far as I know, as far as I remember, I am twenty five years old. Born March 13, 1987. Don't have a social security number or ID, I don't even have a birth certificate or anything, so I don't have anything to verify this, but that's what I was told, so that's what I'm going with. That's how it is when you're perpetually on the run from everyone. But that's the baseline, Desmond Miles, born March 13, 1987, twenty five years of age.

Except today it's 2018, so, uh, I should be thirty – thirty one. Shit, yeah, that's wild to think about. Except, I'm not, I'm not thirty, I don't…

I've already messed this up, I should start over again. Start with the date, with, "Today is date so and so, I am in place so and so," or something like that, make it an official log, or some such. That'd be clearer. Like I'm a fucking star ship captain.

(quiet laughter)

This is so fucking insane…

Okay, okay, fuck. Starting over again.

Today is the 13th of June, 2018, and I am in New York – staying at a hotel, under a false name, obviously. The people didn't ask too many questions, they just accepted my money. They're… shell shocked, I think they were just glad to have something to… to concentrate on. Work, giving people something else to think about than the… the thing, whatever it was. The Snap.

Fuck, there is just so much to cover, I don't know how to start this. I don't know how to even – shit…

I'm, I'm going to get a glass of something strong from the bar, have a think, and then, then I'm going to start again. Yeah, I'll just...

(click)

* * *

14th of June, 2018, in New York. Desmond Miles, recording.

That's, that's how I am going to start. Yeah. Well, maybe without the name part, I figure you can tell, whoever… is listening.

I'm going to start from the beginning – from what I know, from my perspective – what I _knew_, waking up. Which was now… four days ago. Okay, so.

The _last_ thing I remember was… the _Eye_, the Grand Temple. Walking up to the pedestal, sending my dad away, my – I guess my teammates. Shaun and Rebecca. I told them all to leave, thinking – knowing, maybe, that it would be dangerous. I told them to leave, and they left and then I was alone and… I touch the Eye. I – there is no way to describe what it felt like, I can't – I've tried, but… shit. Anyway, I touched it and then, maybe – I don't know. I died? Ceased? Everything went black – or, just, stopped. Maybe I just went out, like, poof, blown away like a candle flame. Kind of felt like that. Anyway, I remember that, and _that_ happened on the 21st of December, 2012.

And obviously what I did, it worked. I checked some sites online – the hotel has a computer in the lobby customers can use, it's handy, and so much faster than I remember stuff being. Anyway, I checked it out on… on fucking Wikipedia – the whole thing has a _Wikipedia page_. Shaun must be – anyway. The 2012 Solar Maximum, it's titled – all about the solar event that took place, how the northern lights were visible all over the globe, and how satellites were damaged. No one died, though, so that's… that's cool.

Since then a lot of shit has happened, which I missed out on, obviously, let's skip that, and start with… with what they're calling the Snap, on the news. The Snap, which was just… four days ago, apparently.

So, the last thing I remember is being blown away by the Eye and then I'm… back. At the Grand Temple. In almost complete pitch black. And it was empty – no computers, the Animus was gone, just some wires and the scaffolding dad and Shaun set up on the entryway, that was still there, but everything else was stripped away.

And, you have to see this from my point of view – to me it was like no time had passed, right? So I went about calling for dad and Shaun and Rebecca, but it was just me, no one else there, nothing else there. No cars in the front – some old signs of activity, but nothing much. It was… kind of scary, and disheartening. Like, if they'd just packed up and not even waited to see what would actually happen, like they just _left,_ you know?

The track from the Grand Temple to Turin is two and a half hours, if you run half of it. I did, and, uh… I, there's no…

It's a small town, Turin. There were just a couple hundred citizens, nothing much going on. Just, fields and hills, quiet little town – we went undercover as hikers, when we passed through, on a road trip to hike to the most remote places. Shaun and Rebecca played hipsters, saying that they didn't want to go to places people put on instagram, stuff like that. The people thought we were nuts, but they didn't mind us much. Quiet place, all told.

Not so anymore. It was chaos. Everyone was running around, shouting, looking for people – it almost sounded like there'd been, I don't know, a mass kidnapping spree? Just, everywhere I looked people were shouting for other people, calling, "Have you seen my husband", or "Have you seen my daughter", stuff like that. It was…

I stopped one woman to ask her what happened, and she told me – she told me… her son had just… turned to dust and broken apart in front of her. She thought it was a trick, one of his silly youtube videos, but then other people started shouting, everyone was shouting, a lot of people were crying – there was a car which had crashed into the side of a building, stuff like that.

I – I tried to help, I mean, what else can you do, when so many people are crying? I did what I could, I looked for lost people with their loved ones, I shouted, called – eventually climbed a telephone pole for Eagle Vision. Didn't help much. I didn't get it, it looked like half of the people had just disappeared, and – I feared…

I mean, it's natural, isn't it? As far as I knew, I just used the Eye – so I thought, _I did this_. Or the Eye did it. Somehow, using the Eye used up people, wasted them away as fuel or something – Juno said something like that, before the end, she said… people's belief had power, which the Pieces of Eden could manifest. So maybe the Eye did something similar, and worse. Fuck, it was, it was a really, really scary thought, I was panicking, and there was no sign of dad or Rebecca or Shaun…

And then I saw a newspaper, then the news came on, and everyone gathered to listen and, and we heard…

A shaking voice, a young TV host who looked like she'd been crying, told us this. "We have reports from Wakanda – an… an alien named Thanos reportedly used some – some sort of alien artefact to disappear… fifty percent of the total life forms in the universe."

What…

What do you even…

How are you supposed to take _that_? Alien? Thanos? Alien artefact? Fifty percent of all life? _What_?

Then the news really started – they reported TV hosts having disappeared in front of their colleagues, and then there were actual videos, people captured on footage, as they _ceased to be._ First one or two videos, I almost didn't believe then – but then, then there were more, and more and _more_. More reports, more news, witness accounts, government officials being reported vanished, state of emergency being declared…

That's… that's when I started figuring out, things – that I wasn't… I wasn't where I left off.

Yeah.

(click)

* * *

14th of June, 2018, New York.

I had to take a break, get my thoughts in order. So much… there's just so much.

On a completely unrelated side note, I miss smoking – I miss the convenient pauses for thinking having a cigarette gives you. I mean, I stopped for a reason and didn't even do it for that long, but it was, like… a handy thing, excuse, to not talk for a moment, get your thoughts in order.

The hell am I even talking about? This has nothing to do with anything.

Anyway, back to the – the thing. The Snap and me realising I wasn't where I was. When I was.

The newspapers confirmed, the news reports, it's hard to misinterpret all the channels going, "On the 10th of June, approximately 3 billion people disappeared from the face of the Earth," and all that. And you'd think my life was already weird enough that it wouldn't be that hard of a sell – I mean, I've met gods, I've talked through times, I have 3 ancestors, 4 if you count Haytham, rattling around in my brain, I… You'd think I was full up on weird stuff. But this was still hard to buy, hard to…

It took beers with some of the guys in Turin. Like, what do you do when half of your population goes poof and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it? How do you even begin to mourn something like that? I have no idea, but for several people in Turin the answer was beer and other alcoholic beverages. I think I might've made drinks, I… it got fuzzy towards the end of the night. The news just kept on coming, this politician, this celebrity, this humanitarian personage, this Nobel prize laureate…

All that without even getting to the damn… superheroes. Hell, while I've been wherever, superheroes became a thing. I'm still half certain I've somehow stumbled into an alternate reality.

That was the first night I tried to get a hold of Assassins. Got my hands on a laptop, some young kid vanished and his parents brought it out, to have someone do internet research – I ended up being the guy, and… later, I used it to contact Erudito. Not, not very secure, but i couldn't think of anything else to do.

I got in touch with someone called the _Bishop_. They didn't believe me about who I was, but they told me they knew who I was pretending to be, all that – didn't confirm or deny anything. Told me to get to New York, that someone would meet me there when… when there was time. Which I get, so much stuff going on, and if what happened in Turin really happened everywhere, then the Assassins – there must've been some of them who got… got Vanished, I guess.

Shit.

So, that's what I'm doing right now, I'm waiting for someone to come to me. Bishop told me not to contact Hephaestus, not take any risks. So, I'm being a good boy. Research on actual world events only – everyone's doing it, so it's not so risky, right? The Snap already has millions of search results, and the Avengers is trending on twitter, so…

Fuck, I hope I see someone from the Brotherhood soon, I really… really need someone to put this all into context and tell me what's really been going on since I… yeah.

In better news, you can get really good, really expensive food at 50%, even 70% off. Half the amount of customers, you know, all perishables are going to be perishing whether people buy them or not. Kind of weird to be eating lobster in what's like half of an apocalypse, but damn. Need something good in the middle of all of this, you know? Also got some really good wine at a quarter of the usual cost. I'm dining like a king tonight, just because I can, just because… just because.

I'm not sure it's dawning on people that half the population doesn't only mean half the customers – but half the service industry too. Trucks aren't even running right now, factories all over the world are stalled – what happens to the economy when not only the demand but also the supply is messed up? It's going to be a… _terrible _year, if this _sticks_. And it looks like it's sticking.

Altaïr, Ezio and Connor didn't really prepare me for this, huh.

* * *

15th of June, 2018, New York.

So, superheroes. How about that.

I've been looking into them, and, damn, a lot can happen in six years. Iron Man, Captain America? That's a hefty title if I've ever heard one. Hulk, who's like… a science experiment gone wrong or something? Sounds like something Abstergo would be into. A _god_ from _another world_? While I've been under, it was like the whole world got blown open, like suddenly… suddenly everything just…

I don't know how to put it. I look at all the stuff that's happened – the Invasion in New York, which was fucking _wild_ to read about. The thing with, what was it, SHIELD? That Mandarin terrorist, whatever that was – Ultron? And superheroes _fighting_ each other? It's like while I wasn't looking there was an explosion of stuff, or like, some door was opened and stuff just started spilling out.

I have a weird feeling about all of it. It's like… some barrier's been broken, I don't know. Still not sure if this is actually the same reality I left, either. I mean, sure, I read the Captain America comic books when I was younger too, my first sneaky stolen glimpse into the normal entertainment for kids, but… shit.

Gods from other worlds, that's kind of… that's what I keep getting hung up on the most. Thor, Loki, Odin? Norse mythological pantheon. According to their Wikipedia page, the Asgardians are _another species_ who _visited and maybe lived_ on Earth thousands of years ago. They live for thousands of years, have _science indistinguishable from magic,_ and apparently Thor really controls lightning and can fly, assisted by, of all things, a magical hammer.

Sounds a bit familiar, is all. Sounds a bit worrisome. Thor's a good guy, according to his pages, he fought in the New York thing and everything, but still… big guy, supposedly God of Thunder and all… I don't know.

I'm eating pizza and watching the confirmed death count go up by the moment. 5 days in, and everything is still sort of stalled. Planes are grounded, half of the world governments have lost their respective leaders, it looks like there will be trouble in the Middle East over it – everyone is looking for someone to blame… Most are trying to blame the Avengers, but it's kind of tough. The few that are around – Steve Rogers, who is somehow problematic, Natasha Romanoff, who is… also a bit problematic apparently but okay, and James Rhodes, who is… I completely forgot. Another superhero. There's so many, I can't keep track of them.

Anyway, they've been holding quick press events in Wakanda to explain as much as they can. Hard to blame people who seem to have lost more than most. Wakanda had a _war_ too, like a full on battle lines war, against _aliens_.

How the hell can people keep up with this crap. Six years ago, the biggest thing was the war between Templars and Assassins, and the Solar Flare, the First Civilisation doing their thing, and now, it's like… I don't know.

Damn, I forgot, I should… should probably check up on Abstergo, I completely forgot, what with the half-of-an-Apocalypse and all…

* * *

16th of June, 2018, New York

Still waiting. Still no word from Erudito or the Assassins. Getting a bit worried, maybe they forgot? Anyway.

Abstergo is still around, but… I don't know what happened, it's like they had a crash, in early 2013? I haven't been able to figure out why, precisely, but between 2012 and 2013, they suddenly landed into the huge money problems without any visible reason why – there were investigations for embezzling and everything, but no one could figure it out.

It was like billions just, poof, vanished into thin air. After that they made some really, really weird business decision – they started a branch to make… video games? Abstergo Entertainment, which judging by the ads I found used my genetic memories of Altaïr to try and make a video game? That bombed hard, millions of dollars down the drain, they couldn't finish the product, etc, the whole thing just folded like a house of cards.

Abstergo is still limping along, but the most news out of them now is them closing yet another branch, or selling some subsidiary, etc. Somehow they haven't declared bankruptcy, but the big bad scary company of my youth, it's… weakening. Dying out. The Big Bad Company that Rules Most Of The World now… is Stark Industries. Owned by Tony Stark, the superhero.

Still not sure this isn't a fever dream or something. Alternate reality is still a possibility. With Assassins, gods, magic powers and superheroes – and apparently portals across space and whatnot… it's not that big of a stretch.

Today, I am getting all the sushi I can eat – there's a sushi bar not far from the hotel which is closing down, so, everything's cheap. Wonder if they have some decent sake, it's been ages since –

Hold on, there's someone at the door.

...

It was just the room service. I guess I'm still waiting, then.

Okay, I'm heading out for sushi. Later.

(click)

* * *

17th of June, 2018, New York.

Still no beep from Erudito or anyone. I'm starting to get a bit antsy here, I think if this keeps like this I am going to have to try and get in touch again. I'm running out of money too, didn't have that much to begin with. Couple more days and I will have to leave the hotel. Shit.

I guess I could pickpocket around, accumulate funds the Assassin style, but that seems like a bit of a dick move, what with the _near apocalypse_ going on.

Sorry, sorry, I'm just… yeah. Antsy.

Doing some more research, but it's starting to taste a bit wooden in my mouth, so I'm… going out, doing actual stuff instead. Not that there is much you can do for anyone in this situation, and it's been a week now, stuff is kind of… it's sinking in, people are getting used to the idea that this is how it is going to be. But like, there's always people taking advantage.

There are some assholes going around, robbing houses – stealing tech and valuables from people who aren't around. Like any of that even matters right now, dollar isn't even worth anything, and… yeah. I think I will go do the Assassin thing. Do what Ezio would do, you know? It's not much, but it's something, and I am going to go nuts, sitting around here. You can only spend so much time sitting around, drinking. Even if it's the good stuff.

And I do need some funds, so… yeah.

I'll tell you how it went.

* * *

18th of June, New York.

I think – I think there's something wrong with my hand. Seriously, seriously wrong – not like, possibly broken bones or burned skin, wrong, but… _wrong_. Like, _this thing isn't normal_, wrong. I don't know how -

And I think Erudito is here. Great timing.

(click)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmhm yep. Fair warning, I've only watched Infinity War and Endgame once, and I've probably forgotten 90% of details. So there might be inconsistencies. Couldn't find precise date for the Snap, so I went with whatever. Most MCU events tend to happen in summer, so...
> 
> Next chapter will be third person pov, so, if epistolary isn't your thing, don't worry, it doesn't stick around whole fic.
> 
> Edit: Woops accidentally marked as complete...


	2. Chapter 2

Desmond pulls on the black latex gloves he's been wearing the last few days to avoid people giving him odd comments, and moves to the door. He can see through it that whoever is on the other side is an ally – they glow blue even through the wood. That's new, that didn't happen before his… reappearance, but he's getting used to it. It's been handy, when pitching in with the recovery efforts.

Not that there is much that can be _recovered,_ but at least he can stop assholes from making everything worse and taking advantage of the situation. It's better than nothing.

Desmond hesitates only long enough to check the rest of the corridor – empty – and then pulls the door open for the single person outside – stalling at the sight of them. He expected – nothing really, anyone, someone he didn't know probably. There were a lot of Assassins he didn't know, he'd kind of been kept in the dark towards the end and… really also throughout the whole debacle, he'd only came to know actually intimately involved with the Animus business. With it being six years later, he'd thought it was a random whoever that came to meet and verify him.

He didn't expect this.

"Oh my god," Rebecca says, the gun in her hand lowering slightly. "I didn't – oh my god. _Desmond_?"

"Rebecca," Desmond answers, surprised and then relieved. Oh, thank god. "You have _no_ idea how relieved I am to –"

Rebecca hugs him, still holding the gun in one hand. It's – a bit more of a surprise than seeing her. How tight she holds on, how she _shakes_, that's worrisome, but Desmond isn't one to turn down a hug, so he hugs back, wondering – it's been a week for him, but six years for her, had she missed him? They'd known each other just for a few months, but they've been spending more or less every day – bar the times he was in the Animus – together, so that's some sort of foundation for relationship, but…

He'd always figured he was more like a job to Rebecca and Shaun than someone they would actually hang around with, if they had a choice. He hadn't minded. Much.

"Hey," he says, soft. "Hey, Becs, good to see you."

She just holds him for a moment, squeezing tight, the gun digging into his shoulder. Then she pulls back, looking at him first with a sort of… mingled amazement and then with narrowed eyes. "You haven't changed a bit – you look exactly the same," she says and blinks, her look turning into a frown. "Six years, Desmond, what the hell? Where have you been?"

"Hell, I don't know. Nowhere, as far as I know. A week ago I just – appeared back in the Grand Temple," Desmond says, and ushers her inside, so that they're not having the discussion in the corridor. "As far as I knew, we were just there, and the Super Flare was still coming – last thing I remember is putting my hand on the Eye, the pedestal. Then I just – I was back at the Temple. Seven days ago."

"A week ago?" she asks, arching a brow and putting the gun away into a holster under her jacket. "Around the time of the – "

"The Snap, yeah, I think it was pretty much simultaneous," Desmond says and shakes his head. "I spent a really stressed couple of hours thinking I caused the Snap somehow before the reports from Wakanda started coming in."

Rebecca stares at him for a moment, taking in his jeans, his shirt – the hoodie resting on the back of a chair. Then she shakes her head. "What the hell," she murmurs, running a hand through her fringe. "You know, when I came here I was expecting to find some mind-fucked former Abstergo subject, not – not actually _you_. You just _appeared_?"

"As far as I can tell, yeah," Desmond agrees, looking her over. She's – she's older. It's not very noticeable, but it's there. Different haircut, different posture, different clothing. Her hair's longer, and though her style is same-ish, she's opted for a longer coat, probably on the count of the gun. There are lines around her eyes which weren't there before – and she looks tired, which makes them worse.

"Can you tell me what happened? At the Grand Temple, I mean – after I, you know?" Desmond asks, careful.

"Um," she says and then moves away from him, to check the room – she takes out her phone, and while Desmond arches his brows at the _hologram screen_ that appears to hover about the thing, she scans the room. "Well, uh. There was a beam of light, and then there were the northern lights for twenty three hours all around the world, long enough to block out the Flare. We went back to check up on you, of course, but you were just – gone. The Eye too, both of you just disappeared. Did the Eye come back with you?" she asks, worriedly.

"No," Desmond says. "No, it wasn't there, wasn't much of anything there, really."

"Okay, that's good. And yeah, we had to ditch the place. Abstergo could track the beam, and we couldn't risk it, staying there," Rebecca says, checks her phone and then nods. "Looks like you're clean. Bugs these days are a lot worse than they were back six years ago – people have nanotechnology now."

"What, _really_?"

"Yeah, Tony Stark kind of just went off. Alien technology being dumped on Earth left, right and centre didn't help – and Abstergo's attempts to moderate the market was shot to hell after the Flare," Rebecca says and then stops, looking at him. "Oh man. You – you probably don't know about that, I mean, the aliens, or anything."

"I know how to use Google, Becs, I've caught up a bit," Desmond says, giving her a look and then taking a seat by the bed. "I looked up Abstergo too – what happened to them? Were they robbed, some major, I don't know, attack on their accounts, or something?"

"Oh, you mean the way they crashed and burned?" Rebecca asks and pushes her phone into her pocket. "Yeah, no – they placed their bets on the world ending. Spent billions on fallout shelters for the apocalypse, with the plan to start over once most of the human population was gone."

Desmond arches his brows, surprised.

"Yeah, really," Rebecca says. "They constructed something like five thousand shelters all around the world, equipped with enough food and food production to last them a few years in the worst case scenario, decades in the best. Something like ninety thousand people spend the Super Flare underground and everything. They were a bit disappointed when all of the human population was still there."

"… damn. So, they – they knew?"

"Mmhm," Rebecca agrees. "And they weren't looking to stop it either."

"Well, that's just – shitty," Desmond mutters. "What happened after?"

"Well, they had spent several billions on something completely useless, taking out some massive loans they had no way to pay," Rebecca says and grins. "The company hasn't been the same since. Not like you can sell a pre-made fallout shelter hidden in the middle of nowhere."

Desmond lets out a huff, incredulous and amused. "Couldn't have happened to better people."

"Also meant that afterwards they had less money to bribe or threaten people with," Rebecca says. "Suddenly people could just invent stuff without Big Brother swooping in with lawsuits or guns. It's changed things more than anyone could've predicted."

"Uhhuh," Desmond says, wondering. How much of human innovation had Abstergo been restricting? They'd known something of that nature was going on, but… seeing it in hindsight was kind of scary. "Okay, that explains Abstergo, that's… that's good. What else have I missed? Where's Shaun?"

It's like all colour goes out all at once, not only on Rebecca's face, but in her clothes, in the room – suddenly, everything goes still.

"Oh," Desmond says and his shoulders slump. Shit. _Shaun_. "I'm – I'm sorry."

"He – it was in the Snap," Rebecca says quietly, not looking at him. "He was right next to me and then he just –" she stops and frowns at nothing for a moment before looking at him. "But you _appeared_ in the Snap?"

Desmond shrugs, awkward. "Seems too big of a coincidence not to be related," he agrees. "But I don't know how or why – I didn't even know the Snap happened until I got to Turin, a couple of hours later."

Rebecca eyes him for a moment, considering. "Do you – feel any different, or…"

Desmond hesitates, rubbing his hands together, hidden in the latex gloves. They were a convenient way to hide it – no one wears gloves this time of the summer, but with latex gloves you can just tell people, _I have germophobia_ or _I was just in the middle of cleaning_ or anything, then people generally just shrug their shoulders and move on.

While Rebecca sits beside him on the bed, Desmond peels the gloves off. His left hand is normal, nothing new there – his right one is… almost completely black. Almost.

"It was like this when I came to – or it was like… it was all black," Desmond says, running his hand over the ashen skin. "I only started noticing the cracks later."

He squeezes his blackened hand into a fist and immediately the gaps show through – like cracks on the stone's surface, or breaks in paint that's being stretched beyond its ability to flex. There are fractures on the surface – and through it, light shows.

"Okay, that is – that's trippy," Rebecca says, staring. "You think –?"

"I don't know. I think – I don't know," Desmond says, not sure he can admit it out loud. He flexes the hand, spreading out his fingers as far as they go, to show the cracks in his palm. Like through the gaps in plates, light shimmers underneath in all the colours of the damn rainbow. "But it's probably from what happened."

Rebecca doesn't say anything for a moment, just staring. "Maybe it's your inner gay, shining through," she says then. "I mean, you got all the colours of the pride going on in there. Very pretty."

Desmond snorts. "Thanks, just what I wanted to hear," he says and shakes his hand – making the lines disappear, leaving his hand looking like it had been dipped in black ink. "I don't know how it relates to whatever that Thanos guy did, but… definitely wasn't there before, so."

Nor did his hand do the things it kind of wants to do now either.

"Yeah, I think I'd remember," Rebecca says and stretches out her legs. "Yeah, I think we need to take this back to the base – not that we have much of a one. We lost a lot of Assassins in the Snap, Erudito isn't in better shape. Mostly it's been just me and Bishop, trying to put out bushfires, but… we have some equipment there. If your hand has powers, we might be able to figure it out."

"I was hoping you might," Desmond says and pulls the latex gloves back on, pulling his sleeves over them. "What about the Avengers – they know about alien stuff, right? If my hand has to do with what happened – or if what happened has something to do with it…"

"Yeah, no," Rebecca says and stands up. "The Avengers are too high profile and really not worth the risks, especially these days. They're like a cork shoved in to try and stopper a long ago broken dam – besides, most of them are either dead, Vanished, or in Wakanda."

"Okay, if you say so," Desmond says. "Not involved with Templars, though?"

"No – though there was a fight between SHIELD and Templars a few years back, but it was a minor thing," Rebecca says and looks at him. "We've got some better tech too, these days – if there's something there, something we can use, we can find it."

"Okay," Desmond agrees and stands up. "I guess I gotta pack then. Oh," he then says, remembering. "What happened to Juno?"

Rebecca hesitates. "Eeh," she says. "We're not sure, actually. She was trying to get into Abstergo's servers for a while, but, Abstergo crashed and just barely managed to keep itself from burning, so…"

* * *

Rebecca, Desmond thinks, is in something of a shock. She's also pretending to be more okay than she actually is. Every now and then, when she's not being distracted by conversation or driving or something, she gets lost in thought and then she looks just… adrift. She looks confused and hurt and lost – and whenever she hears a door or something, she looks up expectantly and then looks disappointed and then a little annoyed with herself.

She's looking for Shaun – she knows better, but she's still looking.

Wondering how bad it must've been for her, just after Shaun Vanished, Desmond looks away and pretends not to notice. He liked Shaun alright and it's _sad,_ but he only knew Shaun for a few months, most of which time Shaun was a dick to him. Rebecca has years, maybe even a decade now, under her belt. Did they become something more than bickering friends, in the last six years? Desmond doesn't know how to ask. She looks so sad, though – and is trying so hard not to.

Probably better he doesn't make mention of it.

Rebecca takes him through New York, making a few detours along the way just to confuse the trail they're making – not that Desmond thinks anyone would be interested in following them now. They end up, at last, in a hideout half hidden underground, which looks a lot like the first one they had in Rome, where Desmond started living Ezio's life. It even has the same kind of windows – tinted obscure by a thick caking of _dirt_.

When he mentions this, Rebecca looks for a moment confused and then says, "Oh, right – that place," and then looks away.

There's no one else in the hideout. At first Desmond worries that whoever stationed there was Vanished in the Snap – but after another look around, he realises the place has been empty for longer than that. There's trash in the kitchen corner off to the side – it looks months old.

"We had another hideout, further into the city, but it was compromised a little while back," Rebecca admits, turning the computers on. "This place should do for now – and we have enough scanners here."

"No Animus," Desmond comments. It looks like a hideout fit for one – but there's nothing like it. The servers are a lot smaller too, nothing like the wall-to-wall supercomputers they needed at the beginning.

"Yeah, we… haven't really been utilising it much," Rebecca admits. "Bill tried, for a bit, but his DNA wasn't anywhere near as clean – we didn't get much of anything useful out of him before we decided it was better to stop before he got Bleeding Effect."

Desmond glances at her. Not a consideration anyone paid to him, at the time. "Where is he? Was he Vanished in the Snap too, or…?" or did he go out before it.

Rebecca hesitates, looking up from the screens. "He – retired, a few years back. It wasn't that long after the Flare, actually – he hung around with Gavin, our new Mentor, for a bit, and then he left. We – haven't heard from him in a while."

"… oh," Desmond says, not sure how to take it. His dad hadn't been that old, and Desmond had always imagined him going to his grave still working for the Assassins. For him to retire, that's… unexpected. "Where – where did he retire to?"

"I don't know," Rebecca admits. "Gavin - might've known, but we haven't been able to get in contact with the Altaïr since the Snap-"

"The _what_?"

"The Altaïr. You don't know? Altaïr II, it's a ship – old research vessel, it's been working as a sort of mobile headquarters for Assassins," Rebecca answers and glances at him. "I thought we told you about it. You rode on it when you were in a coma."

"Yeah, you didn't tell me much of anything, if you recall," Desmond says and frowns. Does he even dare to ask about his mom?

"I guess we didn't," Rebecca says quietly and coughs. "Um, this is going to take a while, I need to set some things up here. Do you want to – I don't know, stretch your legs in the meanwhile?"

"What, like the old days? Send Desmond out of the way before he gets underfoot?" Desmond asks and huffs, amused. "How about you tell me what you want to set up instead, and I'll help you?"

Rebecca hesitates and then smiles. "Yeah, okay. Um, there should be – that box, over there? Bring it over, I'll walk you through setting up a scanner."

Desmond does as asked, and with Rebecca looking between his work and her own, he manages to set up what looks like a sort of dentist light on an articulated arm. Rebecca tells him it's derived from some old Isu – and Chitauri – tech, and it's designed for scanning alien technology, mostly – it sees through things like an X-ray and records all sorts of energy wave outputs and whatnot.

"Also scans for radiation," she says. "Though after New York, half of cell phones work as Geiger counters too."

"Really?" Desmond asks while screwing in the joints of the arm.

"Mm-hmm. Risk of radioactive fallout from unknown space really spooked people – never mind other stuff. You know, they actually sent a nuke through the portal? You can still detect the radiation from it on the rooftops in Manhattan," Rebecca says and Desmond makes a face.

"World has gotten a lot more scary since I was around," he mutters. "Which reminds me – what's the deal with Thor and Loki, the Asgardians?"

"Hmm. Well, we know mostly what everyone else knows, which is not much," Rebecca admits. "We haven't managed to get a man near enough to actually get a proper read on the guys from Asgard. They're humanoid though, and they bleed red, so… who knows."

Desmond glances at her. "Any relation to the Isu?" he asks. "I mean, if the Isu could escape Earth into some distant corner of space before the Solar Flare, they would've."

"It's been considered," Rebecca agrees. "But again, we haven't gotten anyone near enough to actually prove anything. There is some messy history, Shaun did a whole –" she stops for a moment and then coughs. "Shaun wrote a whole thesis about them, remind me to get it to you later. But we're not sure. So as long as they're satisfied sticking to their own and no humans are being enslaved or mind controlled…"

Desmond hesitates and then mounts the scanner on the arm. "There was that blue stuff in the invasion, the thing Loki did – or was that just unfound hearsay?" The website he'd read it on had been all about conspiracy theories.

"It was a device, an alien artefact," Rebecca says. "And according to the statements from Thor, Loki was working on his own – or for Thanos, it's a bit confusing at this point. It's not something Asgardians as a whole do, not anymore anyway."

"Comforting," Desmond says, attaching the cables of the scanner, and then stepping back. "I think this thing is done."

Rebecca looks up and then nods. "I'm about done updating everything too. Let's fire it up and get your arm under it."

"Out of curiosity, how often do you scan alien tech?" Desmond asks.

"These days?" Rebecca asks and makes a face. "World's changed, Desmond – it's all aliens, every day, till kingdom come. With random supervillains and such along the way."

They set up the scanner and then Desmond sits down, his arm bared and glove stripped under the weird dentist-light-shaped scanner, as it breathes _heat_ on his skin. "Am I going to get cancer from this?" Desmond asks warily, opening and closing his hand.

Rebecca considers it and then says, wincing, "We'll make it quick," and hits the button.

There's a sound of power building up, a sort of rising hum and then – a sad little whistle, as the scanner instantly burns out. Desmond looks at it and then at his arm, which is now _buzzing_ faintly with what feels like static electricity under his skin. "Um," he says and looks up.

"Um," Rebecca answers, looking down at his hand. "Hm." She whips out her phone and aims it at Desmond's hand, tapping couple buttons. "Well," she says. You're not _emitting_ radiation, but…"

"_But_?" Desmond asks worriedly

"_But_ – but that is probably not a good sign," Rebecca says and lowers the phone. "You really don't feel any different?"

"Eh," Desmond shrugs and pulls his hand away, rubbing at the wrist. On the back of his hand, the cracks are showing again. "So now what?"

Rebecca taps her chin with the phone. "I don't know," she admits. "I – I'm gonna give Bishop a call, see what she thinks – you just hang on for a bit, okay, and don't touch anything."

Desmond frowns, leaning back a little and then watching as she heads further away, to make the call without him overhearing. Except he could overhear it, if he chose to.

He doesn't. Instead he looks at his arm, peering through the widest crack at the back of his wrist that shows when he tilts his hand just so. He thinks he can see into the shimmering light – it looks like it goes far past the dimensions of his hand, just… endlessly. It actually might.

Closing his hand over the crack, Desmond lowers his hands and looks up. He's pretty sure there is no flesh in his hand anymore. That's… freaky.

All of this is freaky.

"You think this is my superhero origin story?" Desmond asks, when Rebecca comes back. "I mean, that's how it goes – freaky accident happens to you, you get powers, boom, superhero."

"Or supervillain," she says. "Bishop's tracking us a more powerful scanner, but it might take a while. We can wait here until then."

"Great," Desmond says and pulls on his gloves. "In that case, how do you feel about oysters?"

"I prefer them in the sea, and alive?" she asks, looking at him weirdly. "Why?"

"A lot of really expensive food is going on cheap right now," Desmond says and gets up. "So I've been binging on lobster and stuff. The fridge here is empty, and I am feeling like oysters right now. So I am going to go get some. I'll get you something suitably vegetarian and expensive while I'm out."

"Wait – you're heading out, on a grocery run?" Rebecca asks, surprised. "_You_?"

Desmond shrugs. "Something good comes from being dead for six years," he says. "No one's looking for me anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter day in honour of my last day of summer holiday ;-;


	3. Chapter 3

Rebecca stares at Desmond with arched eyebrows as the guy goes through his second plate of shrimp. She… isn't sure how to take this. There had never been that many photos or videos of Desmond, and she can't say she has the best memory when it comes to people – it's been well over five years and, well, a lot has happened since then. At a first glance Desmond doesn't seem to have changed at all – he even wears the same t-shirt and hoodie she remembers him wearing.

… but she has the vague memory of being freaked out about how _little_ Desmond ate – how he could go through days in the Animus not even having a drink of water. Him putting away this much food in one sitting, she's pretty sure that's new.

"Am I putting you off your dinner?" Desmond asks, looking up between the bites.

"No, just wondering where you're putting it all," she says, shaking her head. This is the third dinner they had, proper dinner. With the oysters she'd figured he just hadn't had much to eat that day and was really hungry. The steak… well, it was steak, and Desmond was still young? Might've been a fluke.

Three times is a habit, though.

Desmond looks at her, a little worried. "You haven't been eating much though," he comments, nodding to her much more modest plate of fried rice and vegetables. "If you'd rather not watch me eat, I can go finish on the roof or something."

"You don't have to do that – I'm not put off," Rebecca says – and she isn't. A bit jealous maybe – what kind of metabolism does Desmond even have at this point? The guy is still giving her a concerned look, so Rebecca clears her throat and makes a dismissive motion. "Okay, I'm feeling a little sick, but I was before – I've had an upset stomach for days now, so I am taking it easy," she admits.

Desmond blinks at that and then sits up straighter. "You're not –?" he starts in alarm and glances down.

"What?" Rebecca asks, and then realises the significance of the glance. "What, no! Of course not. I've just got a stomach bug, or something – everyone's had one since the Snap," she says and rolls her eyes. Men – show one sign of sickness and it's all suspicion. Seriously. "But we're not talking about me, Desmond, seriously where is all that _going_? That's like ten thousand calories per plate," she says, motioning to his food.

"Don't fat shame me, I'm just hungry. And this," Desmond points to the fried shrimp, of which there is a ludicrous amount, "Is really good. Maybe I'm stocking up after six years of not eating anything."

"Are you?" she asks curiously and then sets her utensils down. "Do you remember anything from in between? Were you somewhere or was it, like… just nothing?"

Desmond hums and then breaks a bit of shrimp with his fingers. "I don't know. I don't really remember anything, it was all smooth transition from 2012 to now," he says and then makes a face. "But I guess – every now and then I – I don't know how to put it. It's like reverse nostalgia, the _oh thank God that's over_ kind of feeling. If I was somewhere, I don't think it was all that fun."

Rebecca folds her arms, a little worried now. "What, like hell or something? Pain, torment, that sort of thing?" Not something that you can dismiss off hand, these days, the world being what it is…

"No, more like boredom," Desmond muses and shrugs. "Just a lot of dull boredom."

Rebecca chews on that for a moment, leaning back in her chair. Death is dull boredom. She didn't expect that. If Desmond even _was_ dead and not in some sort of Isu cold storage, like Captain America up in the Arctic. Another thing that you can't really dismiss these days.

"Anything from Bishop?" Desmond asks.

Rebecca hums and takes out her phone, checking it. "No, nothing," she says, unlocking the screen and opening her news app. "Some new development about the Snap, or something. Hmmm… oh, that _sucks_."

"Huh?" Desmond asks.

"That's just the worst," Rebecca sighs and then turns the phone to show him the article titled, "_Half of ALL life_," with the subtitle, "_Compiled reports from all around the world confirm, half of all known animals Vanished in the Snap as well_."

"Aww," Desmond says, taking the phone and scrolling through the article quickly. "Half of pets, that does suck. Who does that?"

"A supervillain, that's who," Rebecca mutters and kicks out her legs, sighing. The whole Snap thing is like a Compound Effect of Bad and Worse, the longer it goes on. Three billion people, that's nothing on the trillions and trillions of animals. "Makes me miss the days when Abstergo and the Templars were the worst ones out there. I mean, they killed people, but not… at this rate. Geez."

"Wonder if that's half of all plants too," Desmond murmurs. "Like, half of the Amazon rainforest, stuff like that? Half of all the algae in the world, that produces like… a lot of the oxygen we breathe, right? What about microbial life, all the little things that swim around the world?"

Rebecca blinks and then groans. "Oh, that would explain why everyone and their mother feels a bit sick all of a sudden," she says. "I bet gut bacteria was halved too! What's even the purpose of _that_?"

Desmond blinks. "Gut bacteria," he repeats. "Huh."

"You don't feel it, do you?" Rebecca asks, a little accusingly. "That's how you're putting half an army's worth of food – you still got yours up and running."

Desmond shrugs, a bit awkward, and then hands the phone back to her. "My condolences for your gut bacteria," he says, more confused than anything. "Is there – I don't know, way to boost it?"

"Hm, could be – there's like, good microbe yogurts and supplements and stuff," Rebecca murmurs, accepting her phone. "Should probably see if I could get some before people realise what's going on and they're all snatched up. Who knows what the Snap has done to the medicine industry – if supply is still being produced."

"Is that something we should be concerned about?" Desmond asks, picking another bit of shrimp.

Rebecca hesitates, looking at him consideringly. "Food is probably going to be an issue before medicine," she says. "Half of everyone means half of all farmers and other food producers – if we're lucky, it'll only be half. It might be more, it's not like the Snap was discriminate about halving occupations precisely. And half of the animals means half of the _farmed_ animals too – and if it turns out it's half of the plants too, then…"

It's a really, really scary thing to consider. Judging by the news feed, they've lost people who were like the only experts there were in really niche fields – like scientists studying specific animals and stuff like that. Rebecca also knows Abstergo at least had lost three of the four of their foremost experts on alien – and Isu – technology. There were probably even worse losses. Hell, Tony Stark? King of Wakanda, _and_ his sister? It wouldn't even take a leader of a nation – just a couple of key figures in the food supply chain of developing nations and…

It keeps coming to her, time and time again – the magnitude of the whole thing. It's a global, _universal_ catastrophe. They had near misses before, New York, Ultron, and so forth, but _this_… this is actually happening. This is Earth _losing_. They _lost_, this is the aftermath of the worst case scenario. Or the second to worst case scenario – the Super Flare was probably the worst.

Desmond glances at her as Rebecca lowers the phone, losing herself momentarily into imagining how much worse it could – and likely _would_ get. Power outs because there weren't the requisite people to run power plants. Water shortages, food shortages. People abandoning big cities in favour of the countryside in search of food. That would probably be weeks, months down the line, but it would happen. Big cities took maintenance –and the maintenance was just cut in half.

"Is there anything we can do?" Desmond asks. "I mean, as Assassins?"

Rebecca blinks and looks at him. "Desmond – there's like _seven_ of us left. Eight with you!" she says and shakes her head. "We've always been the underdog, but not like this. Bishop is barely holding it together, trying to scrape up what's left of us…" she trails away, helpless. "No," she says then. "No, I don't think so."

Desmond tilts his head slightly and then eats another bit of shrimp – the last one he has on the plate. He still has half of a pot of them left. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't try," he says. "If you don't do anything, then… nothing will get done."

Rebecca tilts her head a little at that, surprised. She hadn't been _that_ close to Desmond, back then, before the Flare. She'd liked him fine, but they didn't really have much anything in common – the most they talked about was the Animus and occasionally a few words about Lucy, or the Assassins, what little she was allowed to share. Bill wanted to keep things _down low,_ in case Desmond was captured by Abstergo again and couldn't keep his peace under torture, all that fun stuff.

Honestly, Desmond had always seemed sorta… aloof to her. He was easy to hang around with, rarely if _ever_ got mad about anything, and just sort of… rolled with the punches. Which, knowing what Bill could be like, had been a damn relief. Shaun had had some _terrible_ expectations about what Desmond would be like, after running away, abandoning his family, all that – and Desmond hadn't been anything like that. He was just… a regular, chill guy. Who agreed to everything put in front of him a little too easily, but…

Well, there was that _"Next time I'll hit back,"_ thing with Bill, which still makes Rebecca a little sick to her stomach, wondering why it was precisely that Desmond ran away in the first place. Overall, tough, she never felt like she really got to _know _Desmond. He either held everything back too much, or… just… didn't bother.

She was sad when he died – when he disappeared, whatever it was – but it had felt like she'd lost a _potential_ friend, not someone she really knew. Him sacrificing himself for the world, it didn't quite come from nowhere – they're Assassins and so was Desmond, sacrifices were a sad part of their lives. But it had been a shock, a real shock. Rebecca isn't sure Shaun ever got over it, ever stopped over analysing it.

How a guy who didn't seem to care about what happened to him or what happened around him could go around and do _that_?

Now this. _Doesn't mean we shouldn't try_. It sounds natural coming from the guy, Shaun would definitely approve, but… it's still somehow surprising. Even now Desmond seems so unflappable. So… casually aloof, like he doesn't care, like he's barely affected by anything.

Maybe she should stop taking looks for granted, there.

"Okay," Rebecca says slowly. "What would you do, then?"

Desmond shrugs, reaching for a napkin and rubbing it between his greasy fingers. "No idea. Go around, asking people if they need help with anything," he says. "It's been working so far, and it's a start."

"Not much of a way to save the planet," Rebecca comments and then blinks. "You've been –?"

"You don't think it really takes me three hours to do a food run?" Desmond asks, arching his brows, and then looks down as Rebecca's phone makes a noise. "Bishop?"

Rebecca checks it and then nods. "Yeah." she says, picking the phone up and quickly reading through the message. "Looks like she's found a us scanner."

* * *

It's not rare for the Assassins to pick up what others left behind – half of what they have is the leftovers of other people, collected from the gutters and then improved upon. Well, sometimes the things they picked up weren't necessarily _leftovers_, but in general they didn't want to catch the attention of any of the half a dozen agencies that were deeply involved with global matters of super powered individuals, so whenever they stole tech, they did it with careful consideration.

In Rebecca's opinion, it would've been better just to steal the designs and then derive on what others had invented, and do it _better_, the way they'd done with the Animus… but alas, Gavin wasn't that into spending on Research and Development. Bill, Rebecca thinks, had squandered a lot of resources on the Animus project towards the end – leaving Gavin with not much to start with. The guy might be still a little bit ticked off about it.

So, it's with care that the scanner is chosen from all the known scanners worldwide, and even then Bishop only gives the info once she's sure there's no one around.

"It's old AIM facility," she says to Rebecca over the phone while they drive, Rebecca at the wheel and Desmond playing with his phone on the shotgun seat. "Stark Industries and the United States Government did a pretty thorough job dismantling everything AIM had, but this place flew under the radar. It's not quite as sophisticated as some other places we could go for, but it's safe – no one's been there in a while. It should be safe."

"I like that, _should be_," Rebecca says, waving a hand when Desmond glances up. "Anything we should be wary of, any explosive substances?"

"Couldn't tell. I recommend you exercise all due caution. And Rebecca?" Bishop says, seriously. "Please, be safe out there. Don't take any risks – there's not enough of us left for us to be reckless, alright? We _need_ you. And if Desmond is who he says he is, I think we need him too. Need everyone we can get, really."

Rebecca squeezes the steering wheel in her hands and nods, even though Bishop can't see it. "We'll be careful," she says. "I'll call you once we have anything," she says and then clicks the call over.

Desmond glances at her and she shakes her head. "No knowing what's waiting for us. Let's just be extra careful."

"I can do that," The guy says and then looks away, out of the window.

New York looks almost _abandoned_, with how many cars there are still strewn about the roads, and how few people are out and about. It's kind of creepy, really, so Rebecca concentrates on the road, on getting them where they might get some answers.

The facility is just outside New York, handily enough – likely set there like many others just after the Invasion, to be close to all the juicy alien tech that rained from the sky. Everyone with any knowledge of tech, and a lot of people without any, set the shop near or in New York around the time in order to get their hands on Chitauri Technology – it's not surprising that AIM was one of them.

Outside the place doesn't look like much – but according to Bishop's intel, it's the place. Plus, the moment Rebecca parks the car, Desmond goes quiet and intent in a way she'd almost forgotten – the way he did, during the hunt for power sources… when there was a _mission_ at hand.

"Alright," Rebecca says. "Now we just need to figure out a way inside."

"I can handle that," Desmond says and nods up. "That window up there? No alarm on it."

"How do you know that?" Rebecca asks confused. "I haven't even started scanning the place."

He looks at her and blinks. "Eagle Vision," he then says, like it's supposed to be obvious, and then gets up from the car.

Oh. Right. She'd completely forgotten about that – Desmond picked up Altaïr's and Ezio's Eagle Vision.

Shaking her head, Rebecca gets out of the car too, taking out her phone and beginning to scan the vicinity while Desmond goes and scales up the building. While she tracks down power cables and security systems, he breaks a window open and disappears inside.

Another thing she'd forgotten – how damn efficient and lethal they managed to make Desmond with the Animus. After the Flare it had seemed a bit like a fantasy, the whole thing – they had never been able to replicate the results of Desmond's training on anyone else, and eventually it all seemed just… too good to be true. Teaching an untrained man to the level of best Master Assassins in history, in the matter of not just months, but weeks, _days_. No way was he as good as she remembered, she must've been imagining it, right?

Maybe not.

"Maybe this is his superhero origin story," Rebecca mutters, thinking back to Shaun's drunken research and ramblings about how superheroes _don't make sense_, and shaking her head. Desmond would fit. An heir or ancient powerful bloodlines, who died to save the world, came back with mysterious side-effect powers… he would fit.

It would be just weird enough to make sense.

Rebecca turns back to her scan and almost jumps when the door to the rusted up building opens, and Desmond steps out.

"I deactivated the alarms," he says. "And checked for traps and stuff – there's none. Come on, it's safe."

Struck by a miserable bit of nostalgia and missing Shaun like a lost limb, Rebecca steps forward. "Any sign of people?"

"Not in a long while," Desmond says. "Though there's a lot of signs of rats and stray cats, so watch your step."

Inside, the building is cold, vaguely damp, very supervillain-lair-esque. It's not very big, overall, thankfully. Three floors, the main warehouse, an office floor above it, and a basement – which is where all the borderline forbidden technology is. Including, it turns out, some actual pieces of Chitauri tech.

"Are those…?" Desmond asks, motioning to the pieces of armour, half a crashed scooter and what Rebecca thinks might be a piece off a Leviathan.

"Chitauri tech from the Invasion," she says. "Don't touch it, some of them might still be active and there's been cases of a nanovirus in Chitauri tech."

Desmond tilts his head and she can see his eyes narrow and flash. "Hmm," he says and then turns away. "So. Scanner."

"Yeah, Rebecca confirms and looks around. "I think – over there," she says, motioning to a sectioned off area with monitors, computers and what looks like a flatbed scanner from _hell_. "Let's see…"

The tech is a bit old, by 2018 standards, but it was state of the art in its day and is still gratifyingly fast to power up. Breaking into it is a bit more of a hassle, but ultimately it doesn't seem like whoever ran this place used it to store any important secrets, so the security is so and so. It takes longer than Rebecca would've liked, to break in, but break in she does.

"Got it," she says, while Desmond spins around on one of the dusty office chairs idly. "Yeah, it looks like they were just scanning the Chitauri tech here, but it seems it might be powerful enough."

"Great," Desmond says, stretching out his arms and then standing up. "So, arm on the scanner?"

"Give me a moment to just check…" Rebecca leans over the monitors, checking how the scanner works, making sure it won't fry Desmond or anything. It's a knockoff of Stark Industries scanners, though, so… "Yeah, arm on the flatbed – take off your glove and hoodie before."

"Right, okay," Desmond says and then shucks the hoodie off. Rebecca had seen the arm before, Desmond isn't really trying to hide it behind closed doors, doesn't seem to be all too bothered by it in general… but it still strikes her how high up the thing goes. Almost up to his bicep, Desmond's skin is ashen black, except for where it… isn't.

Desmond peels off the latex gloves, shoving them into his back pocket, and then drags over a chair so that he can sit beside the scanner. Then he lays his whole arm on it, like a kid trying to take a photocopy of it. "That good?" he asks, spreading out his fingers.

"Yeah – just hold it still for a second," Rebecca says, and then hits scan.

The scanner doesn't short out like the previous one – but… the results probably would've been more definite if it had. Rebecca leans in to peer at the results and then leans back again. Yeah, she has no idea what it means.

"So?" Desmond asks. "Can I move my hand now – this thing is kind of hot. What's it say?"

"Hm? Yeah, sure, you can take your hand off it," Rebecca says and, shaking her head, quickly takes a copy of the results. "Well… I have no idea what this means – I think you maxed this thing out on… pretty much everything it can measure."

Desmond looks at her warily and rubs at his inner arm. "Right, and what _does_ it measure?"

"Radiation, material makeup, power output," Rebecca says, waving a hand at the screen. "If it was your regular bit of tech it was scanning, we'd get an X-ray out of it, or an ultrasound, see what's inside, get at least a _general_ list of materials that went into building, and usually a good idea about if and how the power moved inside it – that's how these things generally work… Kind of looks like there's everything and anything in your hand. And also maybe nothing."

Rebecca turns the picture to show Desmond the X-Ray. Desmond's entire arm is white noise – very brilliant white noise.

"So, that means… what?" Desmond asks, tilting his head.

Rebecca looks at the screen. "I have no idea," she admits. "But it's… _something_. And at this point I am hoping it might be the superhero thing, because otherwise I think we should maybe start getting worried about it. Like, really worried."

Desmond doesn't answer and Rebecca swallows. "Seriously, Desmond – you have no idea yourself?" she asks rather helplessly. "No idea, no gut feeling, nothing?"

Desmond hums, turning to look at the arm and then lifting it slightly, running his fingers down the inside of his wrist, down to the bend of his arm. "Well," he says. "Not – not really, but, uh. There was a moment, just a bit before you came, when…"

He leans back a little and closes his hand into a fist.

It's – Rebecca has no other way to put it; it's like seeing something from the Animus back in the day, a character skin loading up – their body blinking out and then back in with a new set of clothes on. The air about Desmond's hand _flickers_ in and out of visibility, and when it settles, the arm is not bare anymore. It has a familiar bit of gear wrapped around it – Ezio's hidden blade, with the silver-shaded bracer and a portion of Ezio's frilly sleeve and everything.

Rebecca lets out a choked noise, her eyes widening. _What_?

"I don't think it's real," Desmond says quietly, eyeing the bracer. "It doesn't feel fully real, but..." He snaps a finger against the metal of the bracer while Rebecca gapes at him. The bracer makes a noise like it's real, a metallic twang, and Desmond huffs out a humourless laugh. "I think it's real for as long as I am concentrating on it, or something."

"Desmond, holy _crap_," Rebecca says faintly.

He shrugs, and the hidden blade breaks apart into strange, blocky flickers, and then disappears. "It sort of happened before," Desmond says awkwardly. "I was busy doing some stuff and I was thinking, _man, I really could use a hand right now_ and I think it almost… happened."

"What – it almost gave you a _third hand_?" Rebecca asks, choked.

"No, I think it almost made a _person_ to help me," Desmond says and wraps his fingers around his bare, blackened wrist. "I freaked out and it didn't happen fully, but for a moment… I could see someone. Feel them."

Rebecca has no idea what to say to that, other than, "Damn. _Really_?"

Desmond shrugs. "Yeah," he says, and then adds, quietly, "I think it might've been Ezio."


	4. Chapter 4

It's a while before either one of them dares to voice it – but Desmond knew it would come to it, it would have to come up. It's kind of why he wasn't sure about telling Rebecca in the first place – because it's such a natural leap of logic to make. A bit selfish of him maybe, but he really didn't want to deal with it – nor with the fallout from it. But… it has to be covered.

"Do you think you could, do you think you'd be capable of…?" Rebecca asks him, wary and awkward and dangerously hopeful. "If – if you could summon Ezio, maybe…"

"Maybe I could do the same to Shaun?" Desmond asks, deeply uncomfortable, and Rebecca swallows, her eyes huge and her face pale. He sighs. "I don't think so, Rebecca. I don't think it was Ezio, not the real Ezio who lived in Italy, not really."

"But – maybe you have other powers, maybe if you –" she starts and then draws a breath. "There's a lot of stuff going on these days, with people with powers, the _Enhanced_. A lot of it's just downright magic, most of it doesn't make sense or follow the laws of physics or anything – so, if, if you can… you should try. It'd be irresponsible _not _to try."

Desmond hangs his head a bit. "I can try," he says. "But I don't think it will really be Shaun, even if I succeed."

"You _have to_," she says insistently. "If there's even a smidge of a chance that you'd succeed… I mean, all those people lost – I…"

She's trying hard to not be selfish, but Desmond can't blame her for being selfish. Shaun had always been more important to her, and vice versa. It's probably only gotten more so, in the last few years while he was gone. "Okay," he says, miserable. "But please – don't… don't get your hopes up, I really don't think it will work."

Rebecca makes an effort not to, but it's obvious how much she wants it to work, how much she hopes it will work. Desmond shakes his head at it, not sure how to talk her out of having perfectly understandable emotions, and turns to the arm instead, concentrating on it.

Now that he's intentionally utilised the arm for once, he has a certain… sense of it. It's like some sort of inward Eagle Sense – it just feels weirdly natural, despite being very much _not_ natural. It feels like he knows it, like some unconscious part of him has figured it out.

He holds out his hand, and another hand appears, holding his own as if in a handshake – a body grows into it, flickering in and out of existence as his mind filters memory into power, into being – from glasses down to the dress shoes, Shaun Hastings materialises in flickers into a very real looking person, held on the cusp of materialisation and _actualisation_ by Desmond's will.

If he pushed it, he could impress upon the shape of Shaun Hastings his memories of the man's behaviour, his mannerisms, complete the sculpture of the man with motion, behaviour, voice, maybe even take it as far as to give him some semblance of _will_ and _personality…_

But right now it's only an image, made halfway physical, built from Desmond's memories – standing completely still, not breathing, not blinking, his eyes glassy, sightless, _empty_.

Rebecca lets out a horrible sobbing noise and turns away, clasping a hand over her mouth.

Desmond glances at her and then lets the image go. The barely corporeal form breaks into blocky flickers and then into sparks, the copy of Shaun's hand slipping from Desmond's own as the man's image fades.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says. "I think it's more like – like a physical hologram. They're not _real_."

It takes Rebecca a moment to gather herself, and Desmond rubs his hand while she does it. To keep himself from doing anything stupid – like trying to comfort a hurt he can't even understand – he materialises something else from memory. A throwing knife, of the same design Ezio and Altaïr used, a near solid piece of metal, balanced just right.

Concentrating on it, Desmond can even give the thing weight.

While Rebecca wipes at her eyes, Desmond draws his hand back and throws the knife across the hideout – without a sound, it imbeds itself into the doorframe. "Hm," he says and then goes to check for the damage, giving Rebecca a bit of privacy.

"So, uh, it's just… your thoughts and memories that you can manifest," Rebecca says.

Desmond pulls the throwing knife out of the wall, running his fingers over the hole it made. When he dismisses the knife, the hole remains. "I think it's internal, somehow," he says. "Contained. I can't reach outside, and Shaun's… not there."

"No summoning everyone that was Vanished back, then?" Rebecca asks, sound of mirthless smile on her voice. "That would be too convenient, wouldn't it?"

"Wish I could, but…" Desmond shrugs and eyes his hand, curling his fingers into a fist and watching the cracks over his knuckles. "Whatever this is, I don't think it's that powerful."

"It might still have something to do with the Snap," Rebecca says. "If – if we could figure out how, if we could _power it up_ somehow…"

_Then I'd work like the Eye, a deus ex machina?_ Desmond wonders and lowers his hand. _Rewrite the consensus again, bring everyone wiped out back?_ Not that he thinks you can just take half of all life in the universe and completely erase it. Even the Eye couldn't do that, surely. _Surely_.

"It has to be for a reason, right?" Rebecca asks, desperately. "You have to be back for a reason! You died to save the world, maybe…"

"Maybe I'm back for a repeat performance?" Desmond asks.

"Why else would this happen? I mean, your _arm,_ Desmond – and appearing right at the Snap, when everyone else was disappearing…" Rebecca says, with some frustration, and waves at him. "No one else appeared, it was just you! Maybe – maybe it's like, like with the Eye, you need to – to get to the right point, you need to learn new abilities. Maybe with the Animus…"

Desmond looks at her and feels an enormous well of _guilt_ all of a sudden, not sure why. It's not like it's his fault that the Snap happened, nor was he planning to appear during it. Or… was he? Frowning, he looks away and then tucks the damn hand into his pocket, trying to remember.

"There has to be a reason," Rebecca says again, desperately. "It can't be a coincidence."

"I don't know what to tell you," Desmond says and shrugs. "I would love to undo the Snap if I could, but I don't think I can. And if there's some big important reason why I'm back, I don't know it. Nothing new there, as you might recall."

Rebecca thinks about it for a moment, trying to come up with an argument. "Do you think the Isu would know?" she asks then.

"The _what_?"

"The Precursors – First Civilisation. Minerva, Tinia, Juno… do you think they would know if we found another Temple, if we – I don't know, got you back in touch with them, do you think they could guide you?"

Desmond makes a face, uncertain. He feels like it's a _no_, but… he really has no idea. "Do you have another Temple under your belt, then?" he asks, glancing at her. "Have you found others?"

"There are a couple, though I don't know if they will be useful. Abstergo already got to them, I think," Rebecca says. "And finding more wasn't really a priority after everything, Abstergo wasn't in a state to look for them, so… but we used the maps and hints you got from the Animus to see if we could find any – we have approximate location of a good dozen, but no one's been able to pinpoint their actual locations."

"Anything conveniently nearby?"

"I'll… I'll check," Rebecca says and turns back to the computers.

Desmond looks away, eyeing the wood where he'd made a mark. Well… at least he's not without weapons, or armour, if he could just… think some up. Kind of scary, being able to just think things into existence, however briefly. Though, considering there are guys out there deleting half of all life… it's probably not that bad, relatively speaking.

"I'm going to take a walk," he says. "Call me if you get anything."

"Yeah," Rebecca says, distracted and determined as she dives into the archives. "Will do."

* * *

As much as Desmond wants to help, maybe even embrace the whole superhero thing, because why not, the world is already messed up, he can't make it worse at this point… there isn't actually all that much he can do, is there? Not much anyone can do.

He can chase off punks robbing a liquor store, trace the robbers who broke into an electronics store, he can help a homeless woman get some food in the middle of the chaos, he can take a lost boy to a shelter where they're gathering kids whose parents have Vanished… But ultimately none of it will actually change the situation, will it?

You can't _fix_ a whole half of all life just disappearing. There might be someone to blame, but according to the news the guy _teleported_ via _space magic_ out, and that happened in Africa, and Wakanda is not exactly accepting tourists at this time… so it's not like he can do the Assassin thing and go after those responsible. According to the talking heads on the news, demanding retribution, a _vengeance_ even, the Thanos guy has probably teleported halfway across the universe. Apparently that's a power people can have.

It's probably the same for what's left of the Assassins, all seven of them. Abstergo isn't behind the Snap, and they've been halved the same as everyone. There's no _good_ fight to be fought here, all there is… is the aftermath. And Desmond, powers or not, can't really do much. Illusions won't bring anyone back, nor can you eat them, or keep warm by them…

Overall he kind of feels like a bit of a fake. The best thing he can do – the best thing he thinks he actually manages to do, is listen to the people who really need to talk. Many people want to talk about what or whom they lost – but not that many have the time to listen.

"She was right there – we were about to have dinner," one old man on the street says, with eyes glazed with a look that's beyond horror. "We were planning a surprise visit to our granddaughter's dorm – she's gone now too. All gone, they're all gone, all there is left is my son in law, and he's been committed…"

There's a teenager wandering the streets of New York, whom Desmond catches in the act of stealing a whole cart full of stuff – stuff, which turns out, is mostly pet food.

"I – I volunteer at the vet clinic," she says. "There's no one there, no one's coming to work, I don't think anyone's left there – it's just me and most of the animals are still there, and – and we're running out of food. I just – I just want to feed them, I don't want them to starve, but I don't have the money, I don't…"

Desmond ends up helping her take the food to the clinic and then listens to her nervous babbling, as she tells about the vets who hired her, how they taught her this and that procedure. Desmond plays with the kittens – who no longer have a mother – while the girl bottle feeds them, and somewhere along the way the girl admits that both her parents had Vanished, too. "At least I think so," she says, not even crying, too far into the loss now. "I can't get hold of them, and they haven't come home, so…"

"I think they're setting hotlines and aid services for minors without parents," Desmond comments. "There's a shelter not far from here that helps kids like you out."

"I know – but I'm already seventeen, and I don't – I don't need a foster home or anything. I can look after myself," the girl says and lifts the freshly fed kitten into Desmond's hands. "And I'm going to look after these little guys too."

There are others who are rising to the occasion in similar ways, and bit by bit the regular services are picking up too. The halving of the workforce shows though – in the closed shop fronts, in the stalling of deliveries, in the store shelves not being stocked. Every day the news warn about this or that minor disaster, of the upcoming shortages, of the industries which might never recover.

Power and water still go out all over the city, every now and then. People are moving out, heading to the countryside – joining remaining family members somewhere, where you don't have to rely on deliveries for food and water.

It's leaving spots of vacuum all over the city, and there are always those looking to take advantage. Desmond takes care of those who look like they're going to do some real damage – like the doomsday worshipping idiots who are looking to set the city on fire, the assholes who are trying to incite anarchy, the _worse_ assholes who are trying to take advantage of vulnerable people… but overall, there's not much he can do to make things really _better_.

So yeah, if there's a reason he's here, he can't figure it out. But he can take care of the trash. That's something.

Handy thing about weapons you can just _think up_. No evidence, when he puts down a racist asshole with a machine gun and a zealous fascination with the End of Days. The number of seriously terrible people coming out of the woodwork, thinking they're chosen by God for a holy mission of exterminating the evil, impure immigrants, _honestly…_

* * *

Three weeks after Desmond's return to life, something… _happens_.

It's a normal night, all told. They're having dinner – pasta, no more expensive seafood for Desmond, that well has now dried up. Rebecca is talking, throwing ideas into the air, saying, "… the Animus. It was always our best source of information. So, maybe if we try again, you will have a genetic epiphany or something."

Desmond opens his mouth to answer something along the lines of _yeah, sure, why not _– and then it happens.

Something about the whole universe changes.

"What?" Rebecca asks, when he lifts his head sharply and looks around in confusion.

"I – don't know," Desmond says. "Something's different."

Rebecca blinks and looks around warily, reaching for her gun. Desmond waves a hand, there's no one there but them, no security breach or anything, none of her alarms have been tripped. Eagle Sense gets him nothing. It's the – arm. Or something _in _the arm changes.

It doesn't look different – still black, cracks on the surface shimmering. It kind of reminds him of the Eye, occasionally – if the interior of the Eye had been a rainbow.

"What is it?" Rebecca demands worriedly.

"I have no idea – but something just changed," Desmond says, clenching and unclenching his hand. It doesn't feel at all different – except that it does. He can't put a finger to how, but… "It was like – I don't know. Like –"

Like an explosion, million miles away. A door slamming shut on the universe around them. An infinite surface, forever broken. Like the Eye when he used it, it felt like – like it was being used again, or something like it was being used. Like – like a connection. Or a conclusion. Like a possibility becoming a fact.

Like the whole universe startled, and then settled, and would now never move again.

Rebecca arches her brows, looking increasingly concerned, and Desmond shakes his head, a little uneasy. "I don't know," he says. "But something big just happened. Somewhere in the universe."

"Okay, that's… not worrisome at all," Rebecca says. "Can you give me more detail than that?"

"I – don't think so," Desmond says and rubs his hand. "I think it's over now."

She considered him and then shakes her head. "Maybe some expansion of your Eagle Sense?" she asks. "Sensing stuff beyond normal reach, something like that?"

"… maybe, yeah," he agrees, though somewhat dubiously. "Never mind – what were you saying?"

"I was saying, maybe Animus could point us in the right direction," Rebecca says. "We could freehand it, let your genes run the show, see where they ended up. Knowing your genes, they're bound to point us in the right direction."

"Hmm," Desmond hums and reaches for his fork again. "Maybe, yeah. Could you make one, an Animus I mean?"

"Bro, I could do it with both hands tied behind my back," she says and points her dinner knife at him. "I am going to need some materials for it, though. Think you could pull a heist?"

Desmond shrugs. "So as long we don't take anything anyone needs," he says.

* * *

A couple of days later, there is a big press release from Captain America and what remains of the Avengers. Desmond misses it, because he's busy raiding a warehouse of high tech materials, but Rebecca plays it out to him later.

"Last night, the Avengers – myself, Thor, Hulk, Black Window, along with our new allies Captain Marvel, Rocket, and Nebula… hunted down and killed the man responsible for the Snap," Steve Rogers says to a crowd of photographers and reporters, with flashes constantly going off, "Though our intention was to – to reverse the Snap with the powerful artefacts he used to make it happen… I regret to inform you that Thanos destroyed the artefacts before we could accomplish this mission…"

The guy details lot of what they already knew and some they didn't. The battle in Wakanda was apparently to prevent Thanos from getting one of these artefacts – they failed to keep it from him. The Snap happened immediately after, and Thanos escaped. The moment they had the means to do so, Avenges set out after him, but it was too late.

Judging by the looks on their faces, the Avengers don't consider Thanos' death much of a victory. They kind of look like they lost, again.

"Oh," Desmond says, quietly, while Rebecca just stares at nothing listlessly. Then she looks at him – and though he can't really blame her… the quiet accusation and demand in her eyes cuts deep. It's half buried under her loss, but it's there – she's still thinking he can do something to bring Shaun back.

"Rebecca," he says, bracing himself for a fight, and she looks away sharply and bites her tongue, furious tear racing down her cheek. She doesn't say it, though he can almost _feel_ her thinking about it.

_Do something about this_.

Fuck, he would if he fucking could.

Desmond looks back to the screen, where the reporters scramble to ask questions from the defeated Avengers. Steve Rogers very wearily answers them – not that the answers matter much. Where did Thanos come from – a planet known as Titan. What means did he use to produce the Snap – six powerful stones, the Tesseract was one of them. Is there a way to make another set of them – no, they were unique, created in the Big Bang, or something. Are the Avengers still looking for a way to reverse the Snap?

Just by looking at them, anyone with eyes can see that they're damn certain there is no way left.

Desmond shakes his head and then stands up. "I'm going for a walk," he says.

"Right," Rebecca says, sounding a little resentful. "Because that'll help."

Desmond hesitates – he can almost taste the storm clouds brewing. She wants to argue, fight, probably shout. She's looking for something tangible to blame and make responsible, he gets that. He's a convenient excuse for that, and hell, they still don't know _if_ or _how deeply_ connected he is to the Snap. Maybe he does have some responsibility here, even if in a very roundabout way.

But he is not going to be a scapegoat here.

"Do you want me to stay, to keep you company, to look after you, something like that?" he asks. "Because I can do that, I can be here for you. But if you want to make me feel guilty for something I had nothing to do with and can't do anything about, then… no. You're not pinning _half of the universe_ on me. You're not pinning Shaun on me."

She looks up sharply, and for a moment he almost _hears_ the accusations she wants to throw at him. _But you appeared when he disappeared_ and _why are you here when he isn't_ and _why are you so special and if you are so special why aren't you _doing_ anything to fix this?!_

In the end she slumps her shoulders. "Fuck," Rebecca murmurs, hanging her head and then covering her face in her hands. "Fuck. _F-fuck_… _Shaun_…" and then she's crying, sobbing miserably into her hands, shaking all over.

Desmond hesitates for a moment and then his shoulders slump too. When he goes to her, she winces away at first, and then leans into him, sobbing harder.

In the end, no accusations are voiced, no blame placed – but Desmond has a feeling they aren't fully going away, either.


	5. Chapter 5

Desmond decides, a couple of days later, that he… _really_ would like to be done with saving the world.

Is that selfish? Probably. There's still so much up in the air, and he knows now pretty much definitely that he's somehow connected to the Snap – the _something_ he felt happened about the exact time that Thanos destroyed the artefacts, or whatever, so there has to be a connection there. That makes him somehow… well, not responsible, he refuses responsibility for something he knew nothing about, had no part in and which had apparently been something Thanos had been planning for years, maybe centuries. But there is still a connection, there is power and with power comes… shit, more often than not.

And he's really done with shit.

It had been, while not _fine_ precisely, something he could live with before his own Vanishing, before the Flare, the Eye. Or rather it was something he could _die_ with. Saving the world. He'd always figured something was about to go wrong, something was going to happen, there was always that Chekov's gun of Precursors and Prophecy, waiting for him. And maybe… just maybe… he hadn't minded dying as much as he should've.

It wasn't precisely that he was suicidal – it's just that he hadn't really cared, one way or the other. Life kind of sucked, back then. Now… hell if he knows what life is like now, but no one is after him, Abstergo is in shambles, and he's got several really good meals and really good alcohol under his belt, so life isn't so bad now.

He also thinks he's changed somewhat. There was _something_ in between then and now – he'd experienced _something_ in those 5 and change years, which, while he can't remember it… it left a mark on him. Where before he would've just shrugged his shoulders and taken what was dished out at him, taking everything lying down… now he doesn't really want to do that.

So, while Rebecca starts to put the Animus together, Desmond sits back and knows, with certainty of a fact, that he is not getting in it. He's just not.

And Rebecca can probably see it too.

"I'm sorry, I don't know – I don't know what came over me," she says quietly. "It was just – a bad moment. I don't really…"

Desmond hums, stretching out his legs. "Grief," he says. "I get it, it's fine."

She hangs her head a bit and then sighs, setting the screwdriver down. The Animus she's making is a kind of a headband, rather than a chair. It's a bit rough around the edges – it's been a while since she's worked with Animus tech, and putting the thing together from random parts is a bit awkward – but apparently it worked like the old kind. Just without the need to lug around supercomputers – regular old high-end laptop would do.

"I just don't know what to do," Rebecca murmurs, running a hand over her face and then turning to look at him. "You know, Shaun would love to see you again. He really took it hard, when you – died. A lot of regret for treating you like shit, and all that."

"Mh," Desmond answers, a bit uncertain.

"He got drunk once and vowed to be a better person and everything – just like you," Rebecca says, letting out a miserable little laugh. "He kind of ended up putting your memory on a pedestal, actually. Like, _what would Desmond do in this situation_. We ended up in a lot of bars, trying to figure out the fanciest drinks. Ate a lot of fast food in your memory too."

Desmond folds his arms. He ate a lot of fast food, yeah, but that's mostly because it was all that was available for him – after the first hideout, they never had much in the way of kitchen supplies, and he never wanted to be a drain on the Assassins' resources. Shaun already made digs about him being something of a freeloader, just lying about, doing nothing. Not like a _real_ Assassin.

Yeah, he can see how Shaun would feel guilty – though honestly, Desmond hadn't minded _that_ much, back then. Shaun made things interesting and didn't sugar-coat stuff. It was annoying, but it was real. Not that Rebecca talked shit or anything, she was straight with him too, but… only to a point. To her, Desmond was a job – to Shaun, he was an _insult_ to their Creed, which made their interactions more… heartfelt in a way.

"I guess I… I just have this thought in the back of my head, that you should be able to fix things, because of how we ended up remembering you. Like you were this potential _best Assassin ever._ The best us," Rebecca murmurs. "And that's really unfair of me. I'm sorry."

Desmond blows out a breath as she falls silent, staring at the Animus headset, and then he stands up. "I get where you're coming from," he says. "And I'm not mad or anything, so don't take this the wrong way… but I think I'm just going to go."

Rebecca looks up to him, and it's obvious on her face that she gets it. She feels guilty and looks like maybe she would like to argue, but in the end she just nods. "Yeah," she says. "Keep in touch? Just in case?"

Desmond hesitates and then shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Does my old email work?"

"I'll make sure it will," she offers. "If that's what you want to use. Hephaestus isn't the most secure anymore, but, if you use code… it should do."

"Okay," Desmond nods. "I'll use that, then. Maybe get a phone with the actual data plan," he murmurs. "Wouldn't that be wild."

"I – probably don't have to tell you, but it's still not completely safe to just go out and expose ourselves," Rebecca warns him. "Abstergo is weakened, but they're not gone. If they find out what you have, who you are – they probably will come after you."

"I'll be careful," Desmond promises. "I'll figure something out. Are you going to go back to Bishop?"

Rebecca hesitates, looking away. "Yeah, I guess so," she says and stands up as well. "Might take a bit of time off, to – yeah. But eventually. Someone has to keep the Brotherhood standing. What little is left of us," she says and then makes a face. "That's – not meant to sound like a guilt trip, sorry."

Desmond grins feebly and shakes his head. "It's okay," he says and shrugs. "Who knows, maybe I will come join you, eventually. But I think I want to – not do that just yet," he says. "I've been dead for almost six years – I want to live a little."

Rebecca smiles, though it's a little weak. "You deserve it," she says, honestly, and looks at the Animus. "It's almost finished – do you want to take this with you, just in case?" she asks. "Or you can throw it off a building, that's good too."

Desmond considers it. He doubts he will have any use for it, but she did build it for him, so… "Yeah, why not. Might come in handy, who knows," he says. "Thanks."

Rebecca nods, wrapping the thing up, for Desmond to shove into his slanted backpack. Then, sniffing slightly and looking a bit awkward, Rebecca holds out her arms. "Hugs before you go?

"There is always time for hugs," Desmond says and steps over, to pull her in. He did like her, and would've loved to get to know her better, become proper friends, but as things stand… "I'll be seeing you around, Becs," he says. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too," she says against his chest. "Shoot me a message if you need anything, okay? Tech, knowledge, someone to rant to about kids these days, anything."

Desmond smiles a little. "Will do," he says.

And then… he leaves.

* * *

Knowing what he _doesn't_ want to do with his life isn't really all that good indicator for what he actually does want. Something not Animus or fate-of-the-world related would be nice, but that doesn't narrow the options much. So, in the end, Desmond just sort of wanders from one thing to another.

He helps a pale, withered looking old woman with her groceries, and then hunts down her husband's car, stolen right from her backyard. The husband had Vanished in the Snap – along with most of the family.

"I'm alright, by myself," she says, though she doesn't look like it. "I have a few friends left still – we have tea and talk about the world. I'm alright."

Desmond still takes time to fix her fence, to make her yard look a little less inviting for the next set of thieves. She gives him cookies in repayment, which really more than makes up for it.

Next he works at a soup kitchen for a couple of days, washing dishes mostly, listening to people, helping them if he can. They all have problems, losses, stories – things to get off their chest. Some though, some don't like to talk much at all, and those are the ones Desmond worries about the most – so he talks to them instead – mostly telling the few good stories he's come across.

"There's a girl I met a few days back, she's running an animal shelter all on her own now," he tells one dead-eyed teenager, who's not even trying to hide the marks on his arms. "All the vets are gone, all the other workers, so she's like… stealing dog food and stuff from grocery stores. I think it helps her keep going."

He points the teenager to the way of the animal shelter, checks up on them afterwards. It's awkward at first, it looks like, but it's something.

Then Desmond moves on to kill a monster of a man looking to take advantage of now orphaned kids. He takes the kids to the police station afterwards. The cops question him, of course, making sure he wasn't the one hurting the kids, but there's nothing even resembling a due process that would take place. The NYPD is barely up and running with one third of the staff, and the justice system? Not for months, probably.

"Many people out there are just losing it," they say. "The shit people can do to each other – like taking all the shit out on someone else makes it better. Not even gonna ask what happened to the asshole – hope it wasn't anything good."

"It wasn't," Desmond promises, and after making sure the kids are alright, heads off to get drunk.

The next day he helps a half deaf shop owner figure out how to run a generator to power the man's fridges with electricity still going out intermittently. After that, he helps a young couple pack to move away from a house where their daughter no longer is.

"Can't stay here," they say. "Don't even care what happens to our stuff, just – can't stay here, can't."

Desmond gets them a tank full of gas by siphoning it off from stalled cars and wishes them the best. Then he goes out looking for something else to do. There's no shortage of that.

The Snap didn't discriminate, and it didn't show mercy. The only people who didn't lose something were the ones who had nothing to begin with, and even they know someone who Vanished. Everyone has a tragedy and a horror story and a terrible answer to _where were you_ and _did you see_. The number of children who were orphaned and parents who became childless is _horrifying_.

But it's been a month now, and bit by bit people move on. What else can you really do?

Schools have to open. Businesses still have to work. Eventually deliveries start to run. Nothing is really _better,_ but the reality settles over New York, which is steadily losing more and more population. There are thousands of cars abandoned on the streets, hundreds of bicycles, other means of transport – but the subway starts running, and eventually the streets are cleared enough for busses. People start going to work.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the Avengers return to New York. People protest by the compound, demanding the impossible – answers, retribution, for them to fix everything, and so on and so on. Desmond watches a news report on the scene explaining again what everyone mostly already knew, and which Avenger was confirmed alive and which one dead. Judging by the signs in the background, there are people thinking they all should be – and others who think they're lying about those who are, and what actual can be done. Or what can't.

"Poor bastards," Desmond murmurs while the news slideshow the Avengers' greatest hits, not envying their position in the slightest.

Captain America eventually makes an announcement about the relief effort he would be leading to help those "who had most suffered in the Snap," and so on, along with a call for "all enhanced looking to offer their help – no matter their past or former affiliations, we're all victims of the same tragedy. All help will be welcome."

Desmond considers the offer, his hand hidden under a glove and in his pocket. He considers, seriously, the concept of joining actual real life superheroes. He is an _Enhanced_ now, apparently, one who probably needs training and everything – which is also something the Avengers are promising; guidance and training facilities for anyone with powers. It all seems very promising and fitting to his situation.

In the end, he decides to leave New York instead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for pretty close to apocalyptic Snap after-effects and humans being... just the worst sometime. **Mass Shooting**s in public spaces are a thing. And also famine, war mention, and cults. Yea
> 
> (Snap aftermath was heavily inspired by Alternate History Hub's video on the matter)

So there are enough shitty things happening following the Snap that if that's what you concentrate on, you'll go mad. There are shootings, mass violence, robberies by the thousands, rioting and looting all over the world. There's at first the threat of famine all over the world… and then just famine, real life famine, happening right now, in more places than it isn't. With international trade down and supplies quickly dwindling, people realise that it's a hungry year ahead of them. There's panic.

People start new cults, each worse than the last, there are evangelists claiming end times have come and all need to either repent – and give away all their resources to the evangelists, of course – or do something much, much worse. There are some proclaiming they saw everything coming, they'd been foretelling end of days for years, but did anyone listen? So people should pay them tribute now. A lot of people are turning to religion, there's even a new one dedicated to _Halving_, the religious worship of having whole of anything and then ritualistically burning half of it, to appease their new god, Thanos. People actually _worship_ the guy as a bonafide omnipotent_ deity._ They pray to him.

The Avengers, possibly in an attempt to un-deify the guy, do the mistake of telling people that before Thanos got his hands of the Infinity Stones, he used to wage war on anyone and anything, always ending the war with halving the population in mass slaughter – and that's what he meant to do on Earth too, with the Chitauri invasion. The idea Avengers have is solid – show them what a bad guy Thanos was, to make people turn away from the idea of worshipping him.

"Thanos was no merciful god – he showed kindness to no one," Steve Rogers says, at the end of the rather poorly planned and desperate broadcast. And it goes down even worse than anyone expects, with all the cults rising up.

The thing is, after what happened… the people who believe in kind and merciful god are kind of thin on the ground.

The first human-engineered Halving to happen on Earth happens in a _bus_, where a single member of a Church of Thanos snaps, with all the terrible morbid irony therein, and decides to cut the bus population in half with his semi automatic pistol… ending with himself when the number of dead is left short. It barely even makes the news, amidst all the other mass shootings, mass suicides and all the other crap going on… and it's only the first of many such incidents.

And then there's the actual global crisis. Famine, which is already killing thousands of people per day. The first days of having a surplus of stores locally are gone – the stores are empty, and supply chains broken. In Africa and the Middle East, and everywhere where population vastly exceeds food production and which were reliant on international trade for food, and in some places even for water, the mass migrations are starting – as are resource wars. Every expert on TV is prophesying it's going to get a lot worse sooner than anyone can expect.

And with people moving en-masse, with all the rioting, looting, general civil unrest… a lot of countries are turning to militaries and police forces to keep the peace – hurriedly recruiting new soldiers to make up for the loss of 50% of their armed forces. It's going to have a snowball effect, they say, countries feeding their armies while their citizens starve, keeping peace in disaster by force…

You get really tired of all the desperate-rioters-versus-armed-soldiers footage really fast. And in the background the disasters just keep on coming. Forest fires with nowhere near enough firefighters to do anything about them. Crashed aircrafts still left lying where they fell. Oil spills from crashed ships. In Pacific, there have been... _spills_, as nuclear submarines without requisite staff to safely maintain them go into meltdowns… or worse.

So yeah, there's just a lot of _bad_.

Too much bad for anyone to keep up with and keep their sanity.

Most of it Desmond can't do anything about, and the few things he _can_ do – like assassinating people who are telling other people to kill half of everyone they know – doesn't have the kind of impact he'd actually want. There will always be more terrible people waiting in the lines to take their place, and their death doesn't send the "cease and desist" message in these conditions, it's usually the total opposite. People are so inundated with death now that they're past the point of fearing it – and way too many _exalt_ it. It's just… bad feeding worse, making things worse.

And Desmond is already sick of death. He will stab an active shooter in the back, sure, snipe a murderer from a rooftop, but he'll rather do it to save people they were threatening, and concentrate on _that_… rather than on just killing the threat dead. He's sick of it. Everyone's sick of it.

He'd rather concentrate on the good things.

On the farmers putting a mass call for new workers, with the desperate but hopeful plan to keep everyone fed. On the way people start tearing up their lawns and hurriedly replacing them with gardens, on the people sharing knowledge and plants, promoting personal farming. It won't bear fruit, pun intended, for a long time, but eventually it might keep someone from starving to death. And sure, there are assholes there too and farmers who are employing people as little more than slaves, taking advantage of their desperation and hunger, but thankfully they're the minority.

There are still decent people out there. People who help their neighbours and even strangers in need. Communities which are pulling together to support their farmers, to make new farm fields and repurpose old ones. There are people giving lessons in food production, rationing, first aid, security and being generally helpful to one another. For every raider and thief there are ten people looking to defend their own and those they care about. People are starting to volunteer for fire fighting, law keeping, maintaining plumbing and amenities for free. And there are people sincerely opening their doors to those in need, offering them food and shelter, what little they have to give.

There are people going to places like industrial farms, chicken, pig and cow farms, and starting to get the animals out, and damn what the companies who own them want. Desmond even joins one of the raids on a poultry farm in Delaware, which… wasn't the best experience ever, he kind of wants to burn the farm afterwards. And to think the animals in that place where the _half_ that was left, too…

The raid is done by a bunch of locals, normal everyday people, who have been pushing against the companies owning the poultry farms to _share_, which they have not. "They're going to hang onto them until money starts mattering again, and then they're going to mark up the prices and make a huge profit," is the general idea. And it's probably not entirely wrong.

Resource hoarding is becoming a bigger thing by the day.

While Desmond takes out the armed thugs set around the farm, cutting security system and breaking open doors, the locals get whole _truckloads_ of chickens out. It's messy noisy work, and towards the end of the night the cops are upon them – but their attempts to stop the whole thing is half hearted at best. A few of the officers even come away from the whole thing with chickens of their own, and plans to set up coops in their backyards.

"We'll spread them around," Desmond's co-conspirator says, fire in her eyes. "As far as they'll go, we'll hand them out – anyone who wants a chicken, we'll give them two and give them instructions on how to build a coop, and maybe at the end of this, everyone has enough eggs not to starve come winter."

Same things are happening elsewhere too, Desmond knows – there's something of a network of _food rebels_ who are cracking open industrial farms and spreading out the food to the people. God bless the fruits of the fast food industry, huh?

It's probably more than a bit overly optimistic. Probably most of the animals would just end up in the pots before long, handed over to people with only the barest idea of how to care for them. But hell.

It's _something_.

* * *

Desmond tests the hand occasionally. Mostly he can manage with whatever he has on hand, be it a tool needed for digging or knife needed to slit someone's throat, he can generally do without the use of weird magical hand powers. But that doesn't mean he ignores them.

It's a world with superheroes and supervillains on the brink of collapse into total chaos and anarchy, and he has no intention of being caught unguarded in anything the universe might throw him. So he tests what he can make, how long the things he makes last, and how far they can get him.

He can create all the weapons he has a good familiarity with – and with Altaïr, Ezio and Connor under his belt, he has a decent list of them. He's particular to Altaïr's sword, Ezio's bracers, and Connor's more specialised weapons, like the rope and poison darts, and if he's in really dire straits, some of Ezio's bombs too. But though he can make them, they don't stick around indefinitely – when he stops paying them any attention, they just… flicker away. With practice though, he's learning to keep a sort of _awareness_ on them. The longest he's managed to hold onto one was Ezio's bracer, for almost sixteen hours – it disappeared when he fell asleep.

Desmond hasn't tried to create a person, not after Shaun. He can sort of tell he _could_, it's like an itch under his skin, to push to that direction and just… make a copy of Ezio, or Altaïr, or Connor. There are situations he can imagine it might be useful to have that kind of backup, maybe… but Desmond can't do it just because he _wants _to. There has to be a serious reason, life or death situation. Anything less would be… wrong.

He also hasn't done much in the way of creating clothing – or armour, aside from the bracers. This he realises while hiding behind a wall while the other side of the wall is being peppered by bullets. Another active shooter, this one in a fucking _mall_.

There's only about a couple dozen people in the mall, it's not really an activity most people turn to these days, with most shops closed and all. But even a couple dozen people are still a couple dozen people, and this asshole is looking to make it just the one dozen.

Sadly he also has two machine guns on him, AK-fucking-fourty-sevens, and enough bullets for both to start a small war. America, fuck yeah.

"Come out, you fucking wannabe, I will make you the first!" the Halver calls, and there's another burst of fire in Desmond's general direction. "I will paint our lord's name in your blood, anoint these halls in his glory! You should feel relieved, freed from the suffering of half-life –"

Christ, these people. Really make Desmond sad that he's never been that intimate with guns himself – would be lovely to be able to make a sniper rifle right now.

Closing his eyes Desmond breathes in and out through the hail of gunfire and then concentrates. Armour, armour. Who had the better armour, of his three ancestors? Ezio, definitely. Ezio – and Altaïr, because they share one armour. The Armour of Altaïr which Altaïr had built with the knowledge he got from the Apple of Eden and which, Desmond is pretty sure, was actually bulletproof. It was built from, like, magical kevlar or something.

Desmond blows out a slower breath and feels his clothes _ripple_ around him, power flowing through them like air without temperature. He feels the weight first, then the embrace of heavier cloth around him, as the robes settle over him and then the armour materialises, heavy and stiff, over his torso. The light bleeding through his closed eyelids goes dark, as the hood grows over his head.

Opening his eyes, Desmond looks down to see his right hand shimmering slightly, before an armoured glove grows over it, hiding the shine. 

"There we go. Grats, Ezio, Altaïr," Desmond murmurs quietly, and then concentrates a little more, until something else materialises in his hands – a shiny silver shell of a smoke bomb. With a squint, Desmond makes it two.

Behind him, in the main hall of the mall, the murderous asshole is still going on, "… in his name I do this, to honour his great ideal, to bring forth the balance of the universe," the asshole goes. "For in his genius Thanos saw the failings of life, the sin of unrestricted population growth and –"

Desmond throws the first smoke bomb at his feet, and while the Halver goes quiet, he activates his Eagle Vision and looks past the half broken, bullet-ridden wall he'd been hiding behind.

A few pinpricks of white here and there, civilians – and the asshole himself, all in red, already aiming both machine guns in Desmond's direction.

Desmond winds his arm back and throws the second smoke bomb as fast and hard as he can, directly at the man.

It explodes on impact, and while the asshole shouts in alarm, Desmond spins around the wall, crossbow materialising in his hands as he moves, and aims.

Twang and crack as the bolt is sent into the air, and in the smoke the asshole begins spraying machine gun fire everywhere. Fuck, Desmond thinks, takes cover again and then concentrates on the crossbow until it's loaded again. Then he aims again, shoots again, and again it's not enough. Fucking religious zealots, they never have the decency to go down at the first hit, do they?

Cursing silently, Desmond materialises a new pair of smoke bombs, discards the crossbow to vanish into the air, and calls up the sword of Altaïr instead. Then, taking one bracing breath he runs around the wall again, this time running right at the shooter.

There's impact on his chest, like a punch, as one of the machine guns makes a swing at him – no proper pain, though, no shock, so Desmond ignores it in favour of throwing another smoke bomb at the Halver's face and then following it with a sword through his neck, as fast as he can. That, finally, puts an end to the gunfire. Asshole.

It takes a while for the smoke to clear, and when it does Desmond can see why the crossbow didn't do much – the Halver is wearing a bulletproof vest.

"A bit unfair, that, don't you think?" Desmond mutters, and wrenches the Sword of Altaïr out of the guy's neck, sending it off into Aether before kneeling by the now, finally, dead man. "Thanos' whole thing was to indiscriminately kill people by random selection, and here you're stacking the deck in your own favour. Your idea of balance and peace leaves much to be desired, but I hope you get some of that in death," he says, and closes his eyes. "Rest in peace, you seriously disturbed little _piece of shit_."

"That's quite the speech."

Desmond frowns and then looks up, still in full armour thankfully, and weapons only a thought away. He knew he wasn't alone here – there are civilians, hiding in the stores… but this is something else. This guy, who's up on the third level, leaning over the baluster there, isn't showing up white in Eagle Vision, nor blue – or even red. Gold, really, is kind of unhelpful, telling him that the guy is important, but not saying shit about whether he's an ally or an enemy.

Desmond blinks until he can actually see in normal shades – and then he frowns. The guy, whoever he is, is in all black, and he has a hood on. An… Assassin?

"Hi," Desmond says warily. "Are you here to kill people?"

"Well, I was, but you got here first," the guy says and then vaults over the baluster – very much like an Assassin, actually. He drops from the third level to the second, and from there does a flip to land not that far from Desmond, it's kind of impressive.

"You know, that stuff gets hard on your knees after a while," Desmond comments.

"Oh, I know," the guy says and straightens up. He has a mask on, which is not particularly reassuring, but he's not immediately reaching for his weapons or anything, so that's nice. "Used to have state of the art healthcare a while back, undid a lot of old damage. You enhanced?"

"…I guess that's what they call it, yeah," Desmond says, tilting his head a little at that. Weird… "Nothing is True," he says, just to make sure.

"What?" the guy asks.

Yeah, definitely not an Assassin. An Assassin would've recognized his robes. "Never mind," Desmond says and steps back from the dead Halver. "Can I do something for you? Because there are some civilians hereabouts, and I'd like to go and check if they're alright."

The guy arches a brow at him. "Don't let me stop you."

"Are you going to try and Half them?" Desmond asks suspiciously.

"No," the other hooded man says, sounding a little affronted. "No, I just wanted to kill him, get rid of another murderer – and now I'm curious about _you_," he says and nods to Desmond. "That's some getup. You got a name?"

Desmond considers him, trying to gauge how serious and trustworthy he is. Hard to say, but – fuck it. "Desmond," he says and turns towards the nearest store – a kind of fancy looking clothing store. There are a couple of teenagers there, hiding among the mostly empty clothing racks. "And you?"

The guy in mostly black hesitates before quickly picking up the machine guns from the floor and hoisting them on his shoulder before following him. "Ronin," the guy says then, falling in step with him. "Desmond? Seriously – you're just giving away your real name, just like that?"

"What? What's wrong with my name?" Desmond asks.

"It's your _real_ name, and you're just handing it out while murdering people," Ronin points out. "You haven't been doing this hero thing for long, huh?"

Desmond shrugs and looks around in the store. It doesn't have any staff left, and probably hasn't been open for weeks – it looks pretty well robbed, honestly. Judging by the fancy advertisements on the walls and by the makeup isle, it used to be a pretty fashionable store. Probably why the teenagers had been hanging around the place, trying to find something good among the wreckage.

"It's over now," Desmond calls out to them, without going near enough to spook them. "The Halver is dead, you can come out now – it's safe."

They hesitate for a bit, one of them peeking her head out very, very carefully. Desmond holds both hands up, to show he isn't holding weapons – aside from the hidden blade. "See?" he says. "Not going to shoot you. Are you two alright?"

"Um, yeah, we – we ducked behind cover the moment the gunfire started," the girl says and carefully stands up. "He's really dead? Dead, dead."

"Mm-hmm, very dead," Desmond says. "Are you alone here, did you come with someone?"

Ronin watches curiously as Desmond eventually directs the girls to head home – no point in waiting for police to show up, it wouldn't happen in this place. With the girls checked and going, Desmond turns to head to check the next civilians. Ronin follows him, the machine guns clattering at his back.

"You know," Ronin says. "Things might be shit now, but give it a few years and rule of law might return – people might remember a guy called Desmond, going around killing people. You should pick a name and set the one you actually were given at birth aside."

"Sounds like something someone going around killing people under a false name would say," Desmond comments, watching an older couple head off, looking weary and tired and not at all surprised by the events.

"And as such I know how it goes," Ronin points out. "You really haven't even thought about it?"

"I don't generally go around killing people," Desmond says. "All evidence to the contrary. Will when I have to, but it's not what I'm about, the whole… hero thing."

"You… just saved a mall full of people."

"Yeah?" Desmond asks and looks at him. "So would've you, if you got here on time, right? Pot, kettle."

Ronin lets out a breath at that, hard to say if it's amused or frustrated. "Pot, which is disguised and under a false name," he points out. "For a _reason_."

Well… true. Desmond really doesn't have much interest in the whole superhero thing, joining them, wearing a cape, all that, but… that is a solid point. Desmond has kind of been careless with his identity, since no one is looking for him currently. He'd been reckless even, enjoying the freedom of being able to himself. But just because no one is looking for him now, doesn't mean someone wouldn't one day.

"Fine," Desmond says and thinks. "Call me Eagle then."

Ronin doesn't answer for a moment. Then he says, utterly unimpressed, "Seriously?"

"What?" Desmond asks. "What's wrong with it? It has _personal_ significance. And there's already a Falcon – or there was – and a Hawkeye. Why can't I be Eagle? Aren't predatory birds like in fashion with stuff like this?"

Ronin rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "_Fanboys_," he mutters and moves ahead, towards the next patch of civilians.

"What? _No_. It runs in the _family_!" Desmond says, affronted. "There's a crest and everything – predates the Avengers by hundreds of years."

"You seriously don't get the idea of an _alter ego,_ do you?" Ronin asks over his shoulder. "It's supposed to be a disguise – it's meant to help you _hide_."

Desmond gives him a look as the guy heads to another store and then mutters to himself, "Yeah, well. Maybe I'm sick of hiding." Shaking his head, Desmond looks around and then towards the central hall, where the dead body still lies and might keep on lying, until the authorities finally learned about the incident and came to remove it.

"Sick of a lot of things, really," Desmond sighs, and turns to follow Ronin.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint checks up on it, afterwards, but there's not much there to find. Usually when a new Enhanced decides to have a go at the hero gig, they leave a trail – usually it's a trail of annoyance, of people having to deal with wannabes who have more ego than ability. In Desmond's, or _Eagle's_ case, there's nothing there to be found, not really – there are the usual civilian heroes, super-samaritans, who go above and beyond the call of duty, those happen all the time… but nothing really about this specific guy. And with the black hooded armour the guy wears, with those hems and everything, you'd think there'd be photos. It's not exactly subtle.

Did he seriously catch this guy on his first mission, so to speak? Considering how calm and collected the guy is, it doesn't _feel_ like it. There's none of that over-energised giddiness you usually see with first timers – hell, Clint felt it too, that first time, in New York. It takes years of dealing with grateful – and sometimes not so grateful – public to reach this level of casualness with the whole thing.

Desmond – Eagle, fucking _seriously_ – is pretty chill with the whole thing, murder and saved civilians and all. He even waits a bit in the front of the mall, saying, "You know, just in case the cops show up, or someone comes around looking for the dead guy."

"Are you serious?" Clint asks, incredulously. "And if they try to _arrest_ you, have you thought about that?"

"Hasn't happened so far," Eagle says with a shrug and takes out a mobile phone, right there, in the clear view of the still probably functional security cameras. He's not even browsing news or some sort of police scanner – no, he's on twitter. And not making a post about his own heroics, he's just scrolling through a random feed.

Clint hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should take the guy by the scruff of his neck and shake some sense into him.

"Aww, man…" Eagle says then.

Clint scowls, looking up. "What?"

"Asian elephants were declared effectively extinct," Eagle says, making a sad face at his phone. "That sucks."

For a moment Clint just stares at him incredulously and then – fuck it. Okay. "Yeah, that sucks," he agrees and sits down beside the guy, to look at the report from WWF. "Hear about the Bengal tiger yet? And the blue whale?"

"Yeah," Eagle agrees with a sigh, lifting one knee up and leaning his elbow on it. "There's this watchlist for species that are probably going to go extinct, if they haven't yet. Fucking sucks."

"Yeah," Clint says. "Species going extinct left and right, and here we have these Halver assholes, doing this shit," he motions to the mall. "Worshipping the bastard that did this. You killed others like this guy?" he asks, wondering if the guy would actually answer.

"A few. There was a couple at a train station and one who stopped the traffic, and got a whiff of one who was going to try for a school – managed to take her out before she got out of the house, though," Eagle answers, not sounding even all that proud – just a guy, talking about his day. "You?"

Clint side-eyes him warily. "Airport," he says then. "Another asshole at a school – then there was complete psycho at a hospital, going door to door, picking every odd number out."

"People, man," Eagle says. "People are the worst sometime."

"Yeah. Doesn't look like cops are going to show up," Clint comments then, looking around. The whole area looks abandoned. "No sirens or anything."

"Didn't think so, but you never know," Eagle agrees. "Gonna give it a couple more minutes and then head out to get something to eat."

"You can eat after that?" Clint asks, carefully nonchalant.

Eagle glances at him from under his hood. He's young, somewhere in mid-twenties maybe, tall but not that bulky under the armour and robes. Doesn't act like a trained killer, really, doesn't have the look – but he also doesn't seem all that affected by what happened. Used to it, but not trained for it? Either that, or he's more of a sociopath than he looks, outwardly. Even Wanda was affected by her kills, and she was trained by damn _HYDRA_.

There's none of the warning signs here, though. Clint isn't sure if it's impressive, disturbing or just sad.

Eagle doesn't answer his question, just shakes his head and looks back to his phone. "There's a pizza place nearby which is still in business," he says.

"Fine – lead the way."

* * *

Halfway to the pizzeria, Eagle's robes-and-armour combo disappears. Clint had seen the guy throwing his weapons away, them disappearing in similar flickers – but he hadn't realised the clothing was the same. It just breaks into colourful, blocky little flickers, reminding Clint a little disturbingly of _Loki_, how he could just spin clothing out of thin air, even armour. Eagle's way of doing it isn't anyway less flashy either – would make one hell of a gif on twitter.

What the guy has under the armour is a lot less grandiose. White hoodie and blue jeans.

"Okay," Clint says slowly. "Now I just feel overdressed."

"I can hang around if you want to find a phone booth," Eagle says, amused, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"What, you don't think I don't have a spiffy magical girl transformation like you?"

"Do you?"

Clint grinds his teeth. "I'm not taking this off," he says. "That's damn handy, though – I bet it lets you blend in easy."

"Honestly, never even thought about it. That was my first time using the armour, I don't usually need anything like that," Eagle shrugs. "How are you going to eat with the mask?"

Clint hesitates, annoyed, and then sighs. "Yeah, okay, fine," he mutters then and glances around. "Hold on for a bit."

He finds a relatively enclosed place in someone's walled off garden area, where he takes off the top layers of his costume, taking out a bag to stuff them in. The mask he hesitates over a bit – his face is still relatively famous, though he's always had one of those faces, which makes blending in not impossible, but still... if someone would take a closer look at him, they might see the similarity between him and Hawkeye.

After a moment of thought, Clint tugs a hood on, hiding his hair and most of his face. Should do, and if it doesn't, then, whatever. He's not going to stay here for long anyway.

Eagle is playing with a stray cat when he comes back.

"Hungry, buddy?" the guy murmurs while scratching the cat's neck. "Should we see if the pizzeria has some tuna left, maybe?"

"Think the cat has a better chance catching rats than tuna, with stuff as it is," Clint comments, and waits for a reaction.

"Never hurts to try," Eagle says and stands up, lifting the street cat into his arms as he does. "Rat population was halved too, you know."

"Yeah. _Everything_ was, but humans aren't scraping about to eat all the rats, are they? And rats multiply. Tuna is probably going extinct too," Clint says, giving him a look. Eagle doesn't seem to be reacting to his face at all. Maybe the guy isn't that good with faces. "Which way to the pizzeria?"

"That way."

They walk. The pizzeria is almost empty when they get there, and the manager looks tired – but it's clean and it smells of actual food. "Check out the list before you order," she says, giving a look to the machine guns Clint is hauling. She has a shotgun sitting on the counter, and she puts a hand on it. "We're short on ingredients. Are you going to use those?"

"Not here, we just want food," Clint assures quickly.

"And the cat?"

"The cat takes scraps," Eagle says, scratching the cat's neck. "Just make us what you do have ingredients for. What kind of payment do you take? I got some jewellery, if you take it. Some stones, um, got some meds too – painkillers, antibiotics…"

"What kind of jewellery?" she asks, peering at the wallet. "You got gold?"

"Bits of gold chain," Eagle says and takes out what looks like a guy's golden necklace, bulky and shiny – it's been chipped away at by clippers, it looks like.

Clint watches they haggle the price to five links of the gold chain – after the woman tests it out – before she even starts to make the food. Eagle doesn't seem to mind paying for him, which means he likely isn't short on trade goods – probably does the same thing Clint does, stealing from the people he killed. Clint usually deals in weapons and bullets, though – not in gold.

They sit down to wait, Eagle with the cat in his lap, still petting it. The guy doesn't look at all like superhero now, or any kind of hero really – he just looks like a guy with a cat. Even with the scar on his lip, he doesn't look all that remarkable.

"So, how did you end up doing… what you do?" Clint asks, watching the guy's face.

Eagle shrugs. "Just happened to be close by when the whole thing started. You?"

"I got informants, they tracked down a tweet from one of the victims," Clint admits and gives him a look. "You just happened to be close by? That's lucky. Not what I was asking though. How often do you happen to be close by?"

Eagle looks up at him, arching a brow. "How often do informants track down tweets for you?" he asks, and leans back a little. "You've been doing this hero thing for a while, Ronin? I mean, you have a network and everything. That's organisation, organisation takes a while to build."

Clint shrugs. "It's been a while," he admits. Granted, he was away from the game for a while too, and now… "You looking to organise then?"

Eagle snorts. "No," he says and looks back down to the cat, scratching it under the chin. "Are you part of an organisation, or like a team or something – like the Avengers?"

Clint gives him a look, narrowing his eyes. The guy isn't even looking at him. "No," he says finally, deadpan. "Not really, not anymore."

"Sounds like a story you don't want to tell," Eagle says and shrugs. "Okay. So this isn't a recruitment pitch or something?"

"Not unless you're looking for a team," Clint says, wondering about the guy. "Figured I'd give the new guy pointers and whatnot. Since you don't seem to know much of anything."

"That's nice, I appreciate it," Eagle says, giving him a rather flat look, and then their pizzas arrive.

They're rather plain, but there's cheese, and a bit of tomato and a bit of salami, so Clint is happy. Eagle tucks into his pie, but not without picking out the bits of salami and feeding them to the stray cat. Clint watches it happen dubiously for a moment and then shakes his head – if the guy wants to give away the best parts to a mangy street cat, that's his business.

"You want to talk about your powers?" Clint asks. "Do you know where they come from?"

"Sort of, and no, I don't want to talk about it, thanks," Eagle says. "You?"

"Don't got powers. I'm just good at what I do."

"And humble too," Eagle says, and after the stray has gotten all the bits-good-for-cats, he puts the cat on the floor and turns to the food himself. "So how do superhero team-ups go, then?"

They chat a bit about how it goes – or how it went with the Avengers, not that Clint says it outright. In hindsight, how it went was both weird, fucked up and kind of lucky. First they had government funding via SHIELD, then they had Stark backing, which made everything better and worse all at once, and then they broke apart like a crumbling cracker, when chain of command got messy.

Clint spent a lot of time during his house arrest figuring out what went wrong, and it all came down to Stark and Rogers having two very different views, leadership styles, plans and ultimately, not that much interest in each other's goals. Rogers stood for the little guy, which Clint at the time had automatically gravitated to, as the little guy in the equation… and Stark stood for the whole damn planet. The shitty thing is, they weren't that complimentary. Of course they clashed. And saving Barnes from justice didn't do shit to save the world, or the whole damn universe, from the threats that were out there.

Hindsight is a bitch.

"So, any team with split leadership is a bad team," Eagle summarises Clint's meandering bitching on the matter, while watching the stray cat run off through the pizzeria's open door.

"Yeah. Any team you join, figure out the chain of command first," Clint says. Things were _straight_ when there was just Fury. Then with Avengers, with SHIELD falling, with governments inserting their asses into the mix, with Ross and UN and damn Wakanda too… Who, in the end, had actually led Avengers? Who had the final call, whose command was followed to the letter?

No one's.

Clint's all for personal choice, soldiers making the right call, and fuck that _I was just following orders_ bullshit, everyone could and should follow their own moral guidelines. But damn, when there are this many people on the line, there should be someone properly in charge. Stark, Rogers and everything between them and around them just messed stuff up, muddled the waters.

It would be easy to blame them for the world – but Clint thinks he's grown up as a person. Still, things… could've gone better.

"Avengers fell because of bad leadership," Clint says. "All the resources in the world, all the brain power, and they ended up fighting each other with Thanos just a couple years away. So, yeah. Watch out for that."

Eagle chews on the thought for a moment and then hums. "Yeah. Something like that happened in our history too," he agrees and shrugs. "Things always go to hell when there are two guys claiming the same leadership title."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, and finishes his pizza. "There will probably be more Enhanced popping up now – they tend to, following stuff like the Snap. Desperate people trying to become stronger, doing experiments, fucking themselves or each other over, that sort of thing."

"Huh," Eagle says, thoughtful.

Clint eyes him thoughtfully, wondering what the guy was doing before gaining powers. Though mere powers don't necessarily explain the use of a crossbow, a sword, smoke bombs. "I can hook you up with some contacts, if you're looking for like-minded people. You're the first I've heard of, but… it's bound to happen."

"I guess I wouldn't mind – I'm not really interested in becoming a superhero though," Eagle says. "I'm just helping where I can."

Clint arches a brow at that. "And that's in no way what superheroes do."

"I just call it being a decent person," Eagle says and leans back to enjoy his last slice of pizza. "Most of the stuff I do isn't that heroic anyway – a week ago I helped a bunch of people break into an industrial chicken farm, nothing very heroic about that."

"… chicken farm."

"Mmhm, yep," Eagle agrees and looks at him. "It was hell of a night. I still can smell the chicken shit on my shoes."

Clint squints at him suspiciously, wondering if he's serious. "_Why_?" he asks then. "Why steal _chickens_?"

"People need to eat, and they were hoarding literally _millions of chickens_," the guy shrugs and bites into the pizza. "Anyway, not really caped-crusader stuff, stealing animals."

Clint leans back, brows still arched. "Eagle, the chicken stealer," he says then, and snorts. "Yeah, no, I can't imagine that being good for publicity. Amazing."

The guy grins and finishes his pizza.

* * *

"So, what are you going to do now?" Clint asks later, after they've left the pizzeria and Eagle has procured beers from somewhere. Clint isn't sure he didn't _magic_ them into existence.

"Think I've seen everything there's to be seen here – think I'll move on to the next town," Eagle says, sitting on a stone fence, watching the empty street. There's a car abandoned on the side of it – looks like someone's broken into it since its abandonment, the windows and the gas tank lid are both broken.

"That's what you do, then, you travel around?"

Eagle shrugs. "Pretty much," he agrees and snaps the can open. "These aren't real, by the way," he says, lifting the can a little. "Tastes like the real thing, but it vanishes the moment it hits your stomach. Can't get actual nutrients from it, but they fool your body into a slight buzz."

Clint considers that. "That is handy as hell. Can you make me something fancier?"

Eagle thinks about it and then lifts his hand, gloved in latex. There's a sort of shimmer of light around the hand, and then he's gripping a cocktail glass, with clear liquid and an olive in it. "Martini," he offers and grins. "Shaken, not stirred."

"Are you kidding me?" Clint asks suspiciously, wondering if he's been figured out after all.

"Figures it'd be a drink of masked superheroes," Eagle says and sets the glass on the wall between them before concentrating. His eyes narrow and flash with several hues – and then he's holding a stout stem glass, filled with what looks like hot chocolate with cream on top. "Irish coffee," he says. "I'm more particular to sweet stuff."

"Okay that is amazing and unfair," Clint says, staring at him. "You can just make _food_?"

"Not food – just alcohol," Eagle says and shrugs, conjuring up a straw to drink the Irish coffee with. "I gotta know something in and out before I can make it – never was much of a cook, but I know my drinks. And it's not very useful, since you can't get actual nutrients from it. Figure it's basically just brain trickery, fooling your senses into thinking it's the real thing."

"That… sounds like an awesome way to diet. Or starve," Clint snorts and takes a look at the martini. "Never been particular to this stuff. Can you make me a ginger ale instead?"

"Coming right up."

He's handed a pint next, and it tastes just about right – it even has the right mouth feel. But Eagle is right – after swallowing, Clint can't feel the stuff hit his stomach. It's like it evaporates somewhere in between.

It's been… a while since he drank anything for pleasure – and this is strictly for pleasure, since it won't get him drunk or anything. "That's some power," he mutters. Stark probably would've _killed_ to have someone around with this kind of power. Power to fool all the triggers and urges of an alcoholic – without actually letting them have any alcohol. Would've made the guy's rehab much easier for everyone probably.

"So, you make weapons and alcohol," Clint asks. "You must be fun at parties."

Eagle snorts into his fake Irish coffee. "I guess I would. Haven't actually tried to see how many I can make – I gotta concentrate to keep them around, otherwise they just vanish. Trying to make drinks for the whole party and keep them from disappearing before people actually get to drink them, that'd be tough," he muses. "Should try it sometime."

Clint snorts and shakes his head. They're quiet for a moment, each enjoying their respective fake drinks. Clint can just imagine the party being the Avengers and those nearby, each egging the guy on to make more and more elaborate drinks, and doing their all to get safely smashed – without actually doing so.

That… that was _before_ the Snap though. Now… now it wouldn't be a happy occasion, even if Eagle ever actually got there. And judging by what the guy's saying, he has no interest in joining anyone, not even the Avengers. Seems happy where he is, with the powers he has.

"So, what about you?" Eagle asks, looking at him.

Clint glances at him and then takes another drink. "There's a Church of Thanos I'm meaning to go to visit," Clint says. "Going by their broadcasts, they're egging people on, to commit more mass shootings. You interested?"

"Not particularly," Eagle answers.

"I mean, going there and putting an end to it," Clint says, rolling his eyes. "Not committing mass shootings."

"Still not particularly interested," Eagle says, stirring his drink with the straw. "Sorry."

Clint gives him a look, frowning. Eagle looks back at him, arching a brow, daring him to question it – so he does. "So you're just going to sit back and do nothing while they spread violence and death, all that?"

"Yeah, all that," Eagle agrees and looks away. "There are thousands of horrible things happening, thousands of horrible people doing horrible shit to each other. I'll kill them if they come my way and are threatening innocent people, but I'm not going to go out of my way to hunt them down."

"Even if hunting them down now would save a lot more innocent people?" Clint asks.

Eagle hesitates and then sighs. "There is that," he agrees, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. "My kingdom for a proper Brotherhood."

"What?"

Eagle shrug. "Used to be, once upon a time, that there was a group of people dedicated to doing that sort of shit – going around, removing threats, making people safe," he says. "Like, hundreds of years ago, I mean – not talking about the Avengers. Dozens of people effectively murdering people for the greater good, serving the light from the shadows."

Clint frowns at him. "What, like a band of assassins?" he asks with interest. "Like murderous illuminati? Or, what were they called, the hashashins or something?" Just how many secret orders were there out there?

Eagle snorts, finishing his drink in a noisy slurp and then dropping the glass. It disappears into flickers of light before hitting the ground. "Yeah," he says. "Or something. Anyway, stuff like this, going around and just killing the bad guys, it makes you go nuts before long. Seen it happen, and I value my sanity more than that. I want to actually enjoy my life, do other things, and if that makes me a selfish asshole… then it does. Still not going out of my way to murder people at the cost of my own mental wellbeing."

Clint considers that – it has the tone of an excuse the guy has been thinking about for a while, really. Like it's something he thinks he is going to have to use in self-defence, like he's expecting to be questioned for his choices. Which he probably is going to be, considering that he seems to have both the abilities and the mental aptitude to murdering the bad guys.

Clint isn't sure if he's on the guy's side or not, though. He'd made a similar choice when he'd retired – and look where that got him. He wasn't _there_ when it mattered, and though there's no knowing whether it would've even made a difference… well, now he will never know.

"And if because of your inaction someone you love dies?" Clint asks.

Eagle doesn't answer it for a moment, looking down. "Well," he says. "Didn't say it was a perfect choice – just the one I'm making right now."

Clint snorts. "Well, I'm going to find anyone or anything who is looking to make things worse for other people, and I'm going to kill them," he says. "And that way fewer innocent people will be killed by those people. And that's how I am going to keep my mental health in check – by knowing that thanks to my actions that many people are safer at night."

"Harsh," Eagle comments, looking away.

"So's the world," Clint says, finishing his drink and then dropping it too. It's freaky, watching the glass just disappear, but hey, no littering. "Guess you can be selfish if you want to, that's your choice, but you gotta take some responsibility for inaction too. If people die because you didn't do anything, and you _could've_ done something… it's little bit your fault."

Eagle's lips press tight together at that. "Even if I had nothing to do with it, and it's _not_ my fault?"

"Life isn't fair," Clint says and hops down from the wall. "Sometimes you just gotta suck it up."

For a moment Eagle just looks at him, his face inscrutable. "You have no idea what I've done," he says then. "Or what I haven't."

"No, I have no idea," Clint shrugs. "But I'm sitting on the other side of that choice you're making, and let me tell you – _at least I was happy_ isn't much of a comfort when everyone you love is fucking _dead_ and you didn't do shit to stop it."

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna be slash, by the way. Keep forgetting to say it but yeah. Slash, eventually.


End file.
